Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc,. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Original Author: Karaii

Author's Note: This story originally belonged to Karaii, so the first six chapters are not mine. When I read this story, it left me at awe and it felt horrible knowing it was abandoned. Thankfully, Karaii was kind enough to let me continue it!!!! -squeals- So all I can hope now, is to make this story everything it can be.

Chapter 2 – Surviving Wrong Decisions

Uncle Vernon was shouting again.

It shouldn't have been such a big deal, really. Uncle Vernon liked shouting—so naturally, he did it a lot. Harry had no reason to be afraid of something further than a beating because of the shouting. The five-year-old was young in age, yes, but he was quite smart and knew the consequences of his actions, and knew how to avoid them. Sadly, there were more actions deserving consequence than possible preventions.

Dudley had broken a plate and blamed it on Harry.

In regular households, siblings enjoyed daily rough playing and their parents once in a while gave them a shouting spar. That was quite normal. A broken plate blamed on someone else was not that big of a deal, in normal homes.

Oh, right.

This was not a regular household (despite what the Dursleys insisted).

And Dudley had not just blamed Harry on a broken plate. He'd also accused the malnourished and underfed (FREAK) child of breaking his piggy brain of thought (which Aunt Petunia readily agreed was a thoughtless crime) and breaking said plate with the tragic 'm' word.

Oh dear.

That simple word brought more grief and anger than a simple broken plate.

Uncle Vernon was shouting, all right.

Harry Potter blinked, wincing as pain came to him because of the action. He resisted groaning, knowing that even the slighted noise would inevitably disturb Uncle Vernon and bring him crashing into the cupboard to beat him into submission again. He had countless lacerations on his back due to his Uncle's belt, and he had several broken ribs and bones, as well as a large amount of blood loss due to being attacked with a knife. His Uncle had then shoved him into his cupboard like the ragged doll he was (FREAK) and left him no better than dead.

Harry was living every day without anything to live for. He was just living because he didn't know better.

These thoughts led him to believe that perhaps he was the freak that Aunt Petunia told him he was, that maybe he really was the worthless shit Uncle Vernon told him he was. He was just living without knowing. His drunk parents hated him and had left him, getting themselves killed in a car accident on the way to leaving Harry in an orphanage. He had no one who loved him and no one who would care if he died.

Harry had read books on life after death. Personally, death was something inviting. He'd once attempted to kill himself, but found himself unable to carry it out. It was not fear—god knew it was definitely not fear of the unknown—it was merely reluctance. He was a bad child, a freak of nature that should not deserve to live. Would this God being welcome him into the wonders of heaven? Or would he be cast down in the dreadful pits of Hell? It was not fear. It was the hope that perhaps there was something waiting for him somewhere out there.

Out there, beyond his cupboard, beyond the Dursley's hate and cruelty, beyond number four Privet Drive. It was the hope of a hapless child who dreamed of flying motorcycles and talked with snakes and lived with spiders.

These thoughts should not belong to a five-year-old.

Dudley Dursley was the perfect comparison of a normal, spoilt child. Dudley's biggest worry was missing his favourite TV show, which aired at seven. (Get the control, Freak, or I'll tell DAD!) Harry's biggest worry wasn't exactly death (he knew he was dying, but he was not afraid of it). Actually, his greatest fear was Uncle Vernon himself. He was a Boy, a Freak, a good FUCK.

And all of these titles came with pain, something Harry did not enjoy.

Harry was not afraid anymore. He dreaded it yes, he disliked it yes, but was he afraid? No. Pain was something familiar to him. It was a daily occurrence. He was used to it, so he had no reason to fear it. It was like a chore, in some ways.

Just another thing in the days of his life.

Harry's eyes swam in and out of unconsciousness, barely aware that his life liquid was spilling out of him, his weak heart (ATTACK, call nine one-one) thudding dejectedly in his rib cage, his lungs threatening to collapse under the strain, his parched throat screaming bloody murder every time he so much as breathed. And then, slowly, the pain began to disappear, numbness settling into his weary body.

Finally, he thought. Finally, he was leaving this world, leaving behind the pain. (FREAK you're nothing but a GOOD FUCK why don't you just fall down and DIE) He closed his eyes, blessed darkness closing his vision for what was now forever…

Suddenly, his body exploded with renewed pain—it felt as if something was being fed into his system, something untouchable but palpable…so much PAIN!

He whimpered, memories and experiences being shoved into his child brain, and he broke. He screamed, his throat ripping and he coughed on blood, pain beyond his little understanding roaring through his veins. What—what was happening!

VOLDEMORT, his mind supplied. DEATH.

Suddenly, his thoughts joined with another's.

OH GOD OH GOD WHERE THE FUCK AM I AM I DEAD WHAT THE---

Harry bit his lip from screaming, unaware of Uncle Vernon's pounding footsteps rushing to his cupboard to beat him into silence—

MEMORIES that were not his, but at the same time they were…they came, all shoved into his mind rudely, experiences supplied by his brain reinforced with feeling. He suddenly understood, understood both lives twined into one, and both souls that had momentarily departed from their body (twenty years apart in age, his mind supplied yet again) joining into one over the space of a few seconds, merging together, melding together, becoming ONE.

"SHUT UP FREAK!" Uncle Vernon roared from behind the locked cupboard door, "SHUT UP!"

As the aftereffects of both lives suddenly startling into one being faded off into comprehension, Harry's voice drowned and all that was heard was now shuddering gasps, trying to regain his breath.

Who was this yelling lump of blubber again…?

Uncle Vernon, his mind chirped.

Ah, yes…but wait…hadn't he left his relatives after his sixth year…?

Nope, his 'consciousness' grinned like a Cheshire cat. Reminded him of Sirius, in a way (pain at Sirius's departure still ached, but it was another life's ache…Sirius was alive in this existence, there was no need to mourn any longer). Been living like a slave under his house for four years…typical house elf behavior, I'd say. We're a pretty good fuck, I think. At least, that's what Uncle says…

Harry didn't feel horrified as he would've been in his previous life (because that's what all these memories were, not his, but his life prior to this existence) but merely understanding. Ah yes, he was the FREAK, the GOOD FUCK, but also the Boy-Who-Lived and Commander and Savior of the Light, archenemy of Voldemort, known as Tom Marvolo Riddle, Dark Wizard, murderer of countless including Albus Dumbledore—

Okay, wait, he thought. Backtrack to the present.

Uncle Vernon had ceased pounding on the (HIS) cupboard door, but he was still yelling at Harry to shut up, which he promptly did, muffling his somewhat irregular breathing with his tattered sleeve. Eventually, his Uncle stomped away, but Harry was sure he'd be in for it later (Aunt Marge was here, he couldn't very well beat Harry as much as he wanted to in front of her, even if Marge would gain pleasure from it just because it was the FREAK being beat up).

Once his breathing was somewhat back to normal (and the pain returning full-flare), Harry blinked and attempted to sort his mind automatically, after subconsciously realizing it was a jumble of childish (well, not childish. Just less mature and experienced than the twenty-five year old Harry's thoughts) memories, easily penetrable by any well-versed Legilimens. It was difficult, getting into his own mind, especially when it was slightly different than his own before.

But that was okay, since five-year old Harry knew his mind quite well, thank you very much.

It was very strange, thinking of himself as the man and the boy all at the same time.

The memories of his adult life were with him, his knowledge of spells and other things lodged into his brain despite this combined existance, instincts he'd gathered in the war settling down into his new body nicely. The memories of his child self were distinct—after all, they were from a child's point of view (a mature child, but a child nonetheless)—but they were rather vague considering his twenty-five years of another life's memory still clearly imprinted in his head. His childhood in his past life had been similar, but the abuse had not been so extreme…so his now-life's memories were quite useful (if harsh), especially since they were quite used to being treated like dirt daily. Harry's pain-tolerance (which was quite high in his past life) was even higher here, since he'd had to endure it to survive.

Everything was actually really confusing.

Slowly though, Harry's brain settled into numbing the pain with a subconscious Anapneo (breathing) Charm that cleared his lungs a bit and let his breath easier (it had been wandless, but it was an easy wandless spell because it concerned oneself). His Healing ability was nowhere near the level Hermione's was (or Poppy), but it was good enough for him. A quick review of his body told him that he desperately needed outside aid, if he wanted to continue in the land of the living.

Harry briefly stopped to ponder over his past life. He knew he was most probably dead there now. What struck him the hardest was that his world was pretty much open for Voldemort, especially after his demise. And as much as he would like to guilt-trip himself over it, he knew that there was just no possible capability of him returning there and saving the Wizarding world, as it was just another dimension of a possibility in his life, another chance in the realm of existence. Even if he did manage to get back, somehow, there was nothing waiting for him there.

Here, at least, he could re-do everything. He was determined to save this world, for his hero-complex was in play at the moment. It was an advantage he had, and although he realized not everything would happen in the same order, or even occur, he could half-predict things (he wasn't a merely titled Seer for nothing) and go along confidently as he went.

Voldemort in this world would never prevail, if Harry had anything to do with it.

But first, Harry rationalized; he had to get away from Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia and the rapidly growing sideways Cousin Dudley. As simple as it sounded, another quick check revealed his magic levels were dangerously low and taxing on the both-souls-now-turned-one. Despite his incredible magic capability, all of his child magic had been spent on keeping him alive previously…and his adult magic was dealing with the trauma of being severed from his body and slammed into another, especially after suffering horrible torture under Voldemort.

His escape had to be well planned, and it would probably take a lot longer than necessary.

Sighing inaudibly, Harry settled down into an uncomfortable sleep plagued with confusing dreams, what little was left of his magic quickly attempting to heal him…

Vernon Dursley was furious. How DARE the little Freak make such horrible noise while his sister, Marge, was here? Oh that Boy would get it now, he'd strangle him—!

"Vernon, what was that horrible racket?" the impossibly large Marge simpered, her bulldog at her side growling.

"Just the boy, Marge," Vernon sneered.

Petunia Dursley (once known as Petunia Evans) sensed a discussion about the boy was beginning, and she quickly intercepted, "Marge, dear, do you want another cup of tea?"

She might not care for the Freak, but he was nonetheless her sister's child, and it disturbed her motherly instinct to see any child under such conditions. She would never stop Vernon (nor would she ever try) from beating the Boy, but the child had been placed in her care, and she would shove him out once the M-Freaks came, and then she would never see him again. But the boy had to be alive, and she couldn't allow Vernon to kill the brat.

"Yes, Petunia dearest, do fetch the tea," Vernon nodded his piggy head as much as he could tilt, which wasn't much, for he had no neck whatsoever.

"MOMMY!" Dudley roared from his room, thumping loudly down the stairs (and pausing to stomp loudly on the step that would rain dust and spiders into Harry's cupboard) and wobbling like an overgrown penguin, even at the age of seven, "MOMMY!" in the process, he tripped over his feet and fell flat on the floor.

There was dead silence.

And then Dudley began to wail, screaming and sobbing. Petunia shrieked and came over to her 'Diddy Duddydums', cradling him in her arms, ignoring his flailing arms and horrible screeching. "It's alright Dudley…oh, are you okay? Do you need to see the doctor? Does anything hurt?"

Marge and Vernon crowded around the massive fallen ball of fat, cooing and comforting him. Seven-year old Dudley (he was two years older than Harry. Petunia had gotten pregnant with Vernon's child at nineteen and they eloped elsewhere. Lily Potter was one year younger than Petunia and had Harry when she was twenty) was not as witless as most thought. He'd learned that he could avoid any sort of punishment if he blamed it on the Freak (he didn't really know the freak's name…no one had ever told him. So he naturally assumed that was his name. A freaky name for a freak.) and that he could get anything he wanted if he cried.

Truly, Dudley was a spoiled child.

After Dudley managed to get together, he explained (more like blubbered) that his TV had broken and it was probably due to the Freak's screaming. Uncle Vernon turned a nasty shade of purple and Aunt Petunia paled considerably. Marge became instantly angry, ranting and raving about bad blood, bitches and resulting kids that were useless and ungrateful brats. Petunia managed to convince them not to harm Harry any more today (after convincing Dudley they'd get him another television, a game consol, and three new games) in case the freaks came upon them for killing one of their own.

Finally, after settling down their anger, Marge invited them all over to her ranch, where Dudley could get on her motorcycle (for two people, but it was perfect for Dudley because of his size). Uncle Vernon pounded on the cupboard door, ranting off some orders ("Make dinner by the time we get home or you'll regret it!" Aunt Petunia screeched, and Uncle Vernon hollored, "Don't do any funny business, Freak!"), and then they set off in Marge's Chevrolet.

Harry woke up some time later, and cautiously expanded his senses. Weak as his magic was, his war-induced instincts were at full power, especially since he was in the 'fortress' of the 'enemy'. Namely, Privet Drive and the Dursleys.

His magic and senses crept out of his cupboard, acknowledging every object and living being in the house. After he'd done the consuming task of checking for any possible threat, he was relieved when he found out none of the Dursleys were home. He vaguely remembered Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia yelling at him some orders and that they were leaving, but he could not tell if it had been a real memory or merely another dream (nightmare).

Harry Potter, in the other world, was not very adept in wandless magic.Wandless magic, actually, was thought to be impossible. Voldemort himself could not accomplish it. Only Albus had ever managed to get as far as casting a petrifying charm on someone wandlessly. Harry could just barely levitate (very light) objects, Accio his wand back into his hand (not that he had it anymore), and sometimes open and lock doors (this was due to knowing how to lock-pick the muggle way, so he could control his magic briefly to act as the tools he needed or just simply do it mentally from memory without his hands). It was a neat way of stunning people in fights, perhaps saving your life once, but it was practically useless.

Carefully, he concentrated on the lock he was aware that lay just beyond the doorknob on the other side of the cupboard. He felt it's existence with his magic, and warily his power plunged into the inanimate object, searching through the little complex gadgets, thinking that he was on the other side, lock-picking it…there! He wandlessly Alohomora'd the door after finding the spot that would ensure its opening, his breath coming out harshly through his damaged windpipe. Harry knew the dangers of utter magical exhaustion. It was basically the equivalent of signing your death warrant and jumping into the hole that was your grave. But he also knew that magic replenished quickly in his body, and if he were left to heal, he'd be fine in a week. Too bad he couldn't be left to heal for that badly needed time…

No matter, it would have to do.

Soundlessly (born from training), he stumbled into the kitchen, aware that his ankle was twisted in a strange angle, he had two broken toes and that his kneecap was strained on his left leg, resulting in a limp. He had countless other injuries, but currently, none were bleeding freely (Thank God for healing sleep, Harry thought). Silently, he climbed onto a stool, cursing the fact that he was so short in many colourful words and languages (in his mind, of course), until he finally managed to reach the fruit bowl in the middle of the table.

He would've duplicated the mushy banana in his hands had he one; enough energy, and two; his wand. Both which he did not have. So he'd have to deal with it, and hope the Dursleys' didn't miss said banana too much. Munching on the fruit proved to be almost impossible, due to his protesting gums. So he carefully nibbled on it and scraped off parts of it with his nails, literally turning the food into mush before swallowing painfully. His body immediately accepted the food, and Harry was thankful that it did not come back up a few hours later.

Quickly, he scanned the clock. Seven! Harry thought incredulously. Shit! He'd slept too long. The Dusley's probably were already coming home, and he hadn't even started dinner! Still eating his precious fruit, Harry fumbled around the kitchen for the tools to make them dinner (Forks and knives in the top drawer, his mind supplied. Pots and pans in the lower one). He started up the muggle machines with helpful advice from his five-year old memories, his body working on automatic, used to this chore.

He extracted quite a few tortillas from the fridge (Dursley's had ordered Mexican dinner a few days back and had, since then, forgotten about the leftovers in the refrigerator), flipping them expertly while they burned a bit above the fire. He made tomato sauce, cut up some chicken, and overall made some entomatadas. The chicken went into the tortilla and carefully wrapped, then sprinkled with melted cheese, and finally had the sauce poured over them. He set up the table quickly (snatching pieces of the food he made in the process, knowing he wouldn't get anything to eat otherwise) and put everything there, just barely finishing as the Dursley's car was heard coming into the garage.

Wiping his forehead and wincing as his muscles protested from the work he'd done, he quietly devoured a glass of water and scurried back into his cupboard, locking himself in. As his body churned out more magic to heal his injuries (turning energy into the source), he fell into a light slumber in the darkness of his tiny space. He was awoken later and ordered to clean the food, which he did silently. Harry was thankful his Uncle was far too tired to 'play' with him (or come to beat him up due to the fact that his lock was actually supposed to stay locked), and that Dudley was asleep almost instantly after pigging his heart out on dinner, so he got away free. At near eleven, Harry was shoved back into his cupboard rudely by his Aunt Petunia and he finally collapsed into a dreamless sleep that had not been granted to him since Voldemort's capture.

Harry wiped the sweat from his eyes, his strained muscles yelling injustice. He carefully ripped the weeds, root and all, instead of Aunt Petunia's flowers. He worked, the sun burning his purple-and-blue back, despite the flimsily and threadbare shirt he wore over it. It had taken all he had to wake up from his healing sleep after his Aunt's shrill screams demanding that he make breakfast (consisting of a dozen eggs; Misters Pig and Piglet ate a whole heck of a lot), and then work on the garden. He was usually already up by the time her voice erupted from her giraffe-like throat, but this time he'd been hurting and desiring nothing more than a day's worth of rest.

He'd juggled the idea of earning himself the punishment of the cupboard for the day, so he could catch some more shuteye, but he'd quickly dispersed that notion. No, Harry would end up being too tired to stand if he went another day without food, so he'd decided to do his chores and perhaps steal a banana in the meantime. It would've been difficult to hide the fruit had it not been for his huge clothing that draped off of his thin figure like a cascading waterfall. He liked apples more than bananas, but he was wise enough not to trust his teeth on the harder substance (he was afraid he wouldn't be able to keep it down, too. Digesting was more difficult with chunkier fruit).

"Stupid mortal humans…" came a sudden, grumbling voice, and Harry stiffened. He then relaxed, knowing it was most definitely not Uncle Vernon. "Hello young one," the snake hissed when he noticed Harry, slithering over to his friend. The garden snake was a rare companion, usually enjoying the company of his own kind than 'humans'. But he dutifully came to check on the boy every three days or so, staying for a conversation before going on his way again.

"Hello," Harry replied in the same hiss-like manner. He had been previously unaware of the change in his voice, but now he knew it was parseltongue, the speech only he and Voldemort were able to converse in. He was glad that could talk to the snake as easily as he could talk to any other person (he much rather preferred the snake's company, though). The reptile was somewhat snarky, bossy, superior-like and strangely constantly amused by things which Harry found disturbing (especially on the topics of 'cuisine'), but otherwise, he was good company.

Harry liked the snake. It reminded him—surprisingly enough considering the snake's attitude—of Severus Snape.

"Ah, out doing the horse-woman's work again?"

Harry nodded, going back to pulling weeds. The garden snake huffed at Harry's lack of attention, his tongue flickering in and out to taste the air. Suddenly, it perked up.

"She comes, little one," he hissed, and quickly slithered away behind a rose bush. Harry had no time to thank the garden snake, for Aunt Petunia arrived at the scene. Harry was a bit peeved that his senses had deteriorated (in his old body, he had been able to detect presence and identity almost instantly) but he blamed it on the fact that he was using his magic to heal.

"Have you finished yet?" she asked scathingly, glancing over at his work with a critical eye. The boy nodded and wiped his dirty hands on his already-stained pants, looking up at her, his eyes voicing a silent question. "Come in then," she said and turned around, leaving with no further words.

"Goodbye young one," the snake said behind the bush, "I shall see you later, perhaps."

"Goodbye," Harry hissed respectfully, nodding in the direction of the snake. He scampered off into the house, hoping for table scraps. By now, they'd have finished his breakfast and expected him to clean up. He could snatch a few pieces of bacon and eggs if he was lucky.

Aunt Petunia stated his next round of chores unnecessarily, for Harry knew them by heart now. He went on his tiptoes and collected the used plates, walking over to the sink. He dragged a stool soundlessly and climbed on it, snatching bits and pieces of the leftovers when Aunt Petunia wasn't looking. The child cleaned the plates dutifully under his Aunt's burning stare, and carefully put them back in their place with the swiftness born off of practice. When he finished, Aunt Petunia awarded him with a glass of water and shoved an apple into his hands.

Harry beamed—oh he was lucky today! Who would've thought he'd get so much, especially after being accused of the 'm' word and beaten by Vernon. "Thank you," he whispered and proceeded to down the cup of water instantly. In case he wasn't given anything to drink, Harry was ready to drink from the sink when he was allowed to go to the bathroom and sometimes drink from the water of the showerhead (strictly five minutes only under the cold spray before Dudley began to pound ceaselessly on the door for him to get out. After all, freaks shouldn't be allowed to have hot water nor a long shower).

Aunt Petunia only sneering at him, crushing the pity in her heart at seeing the young child happy for getting water instantly. No freak deserved pity. Especially not this freak, son of her dearly hated and thankfully departed freak sister. Huh, teaches you not to get involved with their sort.

As Harry ran off to do his other chores, Aunt Petunia conveniently ignored the child's limp and the way he cradled his ribs.

Harry thought it rather ironic that he could defend himself from Death Eaters, countless assassination attempts and Voldemort's fury, but not his own family. He coaxed himself into concentrating on healing, then revenge. He couldn't very well leave Privet Drive's safety and open himself up for any stray Death Eater attacks beyond the protective shields until he had a wand and was powerful enough to defend himself flawlessly. That, he knew, would take a while.

The Dursleys left again, this time to drop Dudley off at his new friend's house…Pier Polkiss, Harry guessed. He was thankful 'Harry Hunting' had not been invented in this timeline…yet. He knew that it would be inevitable, for everything was headed in that direction.

Thankful for some time alone, Harry decided to practice his wandless magic. It would leave him exhausted, but it would not deter his healing. He had read somewhere that the most powerful wandless master had been Godric Gryffindor, closely followed by Salazar (whom had been childhood friends with Godric back in their youth) and the rest of the Founders. It appeared that Wandless magic was merely controlled accidental magic, thus making it hard (and almost impossible) for older wizards to use it, since they were so keenly aware of their power that they could no longer perform accidental magic, let alone control the spontaneous bursts. Stabilization, this jump occurred from child to emotionally controlled adult. Adults had, by the time they passed their teenage years, stabilized their magic, so accidental occurrences ceased almost completely and not always allowed them to control raw magic if they had no previous conscious experience with it.

Harry wanted to test a theory.

Godric had been developing his ability since childhood (or so declared the ancient book, which he had actually bought in Knockturn Alley…) so he had been able to control much more difficult spells. Albus, although extremely powerful, had not even begun thinking about Wandless magic until his fifties. Harry had been trained under Albus for a year or so, but he hadn't accomplished much. But now he had a chance. He was young, five-years old, but with incredible magic reserves. If he tried hard enough, practiced hard enough, he might be able to get to the level of the Founders.

Of course, this was merely a theory. A dangerous one, for it threatened complete magical exhaustion. But Harry was not to be deterred (he rarely was). Rather than keep in himself locked in his cupboard, he carefully walked into the living room and sat cross-legged in the middle, closing his eyes in concentration. First, he expanded his senses, like Albus had taught him.

He immediately began to explore the room with only his magical instinct, discovering that there was absolutely nothing magical in here except himself. This would make things harder, since he had to make an object become somewhat 'magical' to make it react to magic (at least, in theory…Albus had managed to move objects with no magical trace before, so it clearly wasn't impossible). Harry checked the room again, with his eyes open. The lightest thing he could find (and that was in reach) was a small children's book. He nodded to himself, and took a deep breath.

He held the book in his hands, closing his eyes once more. Carefully, he poured a tiny part of his magic into the book, feeling it vibrate warmly in his hand. Sighing in relief, Harry set it down on the floor, and walked a few paces back. Delving into his power, he began to mutter the Accio charm under his breath, over and over, just to get the magical feel in his words. The wand motion fixed firmly in his mind, he did the same, except with his finger, channeling his magic from there, flexing it, making it obey him…

And the book flew sharply into his hand, whistling through the air.

Harry blinked, astonished. Wow, he thought dumbly. He had thought it would've taken him a few months to reach this level. This was…surprising. But it was a good surprise. And actually…he didn't feel drained at all! This was quite the pleasant discovery. Far better than he would've ever expected. It appeared this realm…this dimension…was distinct from his own. Understandably so, for they were not the same place, despite the very sharp similarities.

Or perhaps Harry was just a lot more powerful…

A rather alarming thought came to him. As powerful as Albus…? He would never know without the proper comparison. But it seemed his combined soul was far more skilled than he'd given it credit for. A happy feeling wormed into his chest, something he hadn't felt for a long, long time.

Hope.

Maybe he could save this world, after all.

It came to Harry, as he lay alone in his cupboard, that perhaps the Prophecy that was true in his world was not true in this one. He'd checked himself in the mirror, and he'd found that he did, in fact, have the scar. He'd reached over his connection (like he'd done during the war), but found nothingness. Was Voldemort dead? No, he knew immediately. He would've known if Voldemort was dead (it was a Boy-Who-Lived thing). And incase it was true, Dumbledore wouldn't have left him here. He would've gotten him back….wouldn't he?

Despite the differences, he was quite sure the Albus in this world was the same as his own. He did not know how he knew this, he just understood it was the truth.

Knowing that worrying over things like this would not bring him any closer to freedom, Harry began to quietly plan his escape. He thought of going to Diagon Alley, but threw that notion down the gutter immediately. No, it would not do to alarm the Wizarding world of his presence, especially not now, at his age. He would either have to create a credible disguise, or remain here until his eleventh birthday.

Harry discarded the latter almost instantly.

Survival.

Harry knew he would not survive in the Dursley household if he waited another six years. He would, perhaps, still be alive, but he would not be Harry. He would be the Freak, and that was all he would be until the end of his days. The loss of identity would break Harry beyond repair. He would live, but he would not survive.

So his only option was getting a place to stay and survive, until it was time to go to Hogwarts. Perhaps he could go to Albus, and explain his predicament. He had twenty-five years of experience (thirty, if you thought about it) trapped in a five-year old's body. He could, maybe, get Severus to make him a potion to make him gain age. But no, that would bring the media flocking to him like ants to honey.

And besides, Harry realized, Severus was not the Sev he knew back home. It would take a while to gain Severus's trust again, especially since he utterly despised Harry now. It was somewhat sad to know that Snape had really hated him all those years, without knowing him. But his friendship with the snarky Potions professor was priceless. Harry knew that, in this world, he would try to gain the spy's trust as quickly as he could. He'd missed Severus a lot—he'd actually broken down crying when he died. He'd felt it was his fault, as he usually did with all the deaths surrounding him.

One might wonder about the Golden Trio's thoughts about his friendship with Snape. They'd actually been rather nice about it, but they'd never managed to be 'friends' with Severus. Sev had only trusted few people—namely Harry, Draco and Albus, even perhaps some of the staff, too. But he was cold and riddled with scars of countless horrors, so he could not relate with Harry's childhood friends. They were war companions, allies, against the Dark, but nothing more. Their relationship had never really departed from teacher and student.

Curiously, Draco Malfoy had betrayed the Dark and joined the Light not soon after his Marking. He and Severus were spies, and got along splendidly. Harry never had the same connection with Draco (he was still snobby, but it was a façade, like Harry's cheerfulness and Sev's sneers), but they had been buddies. They'd saved their lives back and forth many, many times (almost as much as Sev continued to save Harry's) so their bond was tight, born out of necessity. Draco had died far too early, though. Twenty years old was a cruel age to die, just barely into the adult world. Not many people had mourned Draco's death apart from Sev and Harry, maybe Albus (though he didn't show much of grief anymore, because he had to be strong).

Snapping himself out of his thoughts, he realized the book was floating in front of his face, as if peering at him curiously. He blinked in surprise, and it dropped. Oh, Harry thought. He willed the book to float again, with no words or hand movement. It lifted obediently up again. Well now, Harry was pleased. Accidental magic indeed! He felt like whooping in the air and yelling excitedly—his conscious progress was immense…he was devouring months of work in minutes!

He would've celebrated, had he not been rudely interrupted by Dudley's screams of "DAD! THE FREAK IS DOING THE 'M' WORD!"

Harry cursed. Loudly. Oh shit. He was in for it now! The book fell limp onto the floor, and the boy backed into a corner out of pure fright. Harry knew he would not get away this time. Uncle Vernon's stomping came from the door, and he entered, purple-faced, into the living room, about to explode.

And did he explode.

Author's Note: Reviews would be delightful!