Author's Note:

In my plan this was meant to be two chapters, but the natural cut-off left me with a pretty short chapter and I didn't like giving you another short one right after the flashback, so here you go! Two for one!

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"He knows things no one can possibly know."

Slowly, Harry came back to his senses. He was parched. Every inch of him ached as if he'd been beaten and stabbed and beaten again. Tom was speaking. Harry blinked and the man who wore Tom's face slowly came into focus across the room. He stood next to a low burning fireplace, speaking to someone Harry could not see. He'd been moved from Mrs. Malfoy's office. This room was dim, mainly illuminated by the firelight and a cluster of lamps. Careful not to draw the look-a-like's notice, Harry took stock of himself. Tight, glistening ropes encircled him, pinning his arms to his sides and securing his legs. He wiggled his feet and found himself hovering above the ground. He tested the ropes. They were of Tom's magic. If he could just loosen them a bit —

"Then we must learn more."

Harry froze, terror seizing him like a vice. That voice. He hadn't heard that high, cold voice since he was seventeen.

A tall, skeletally thin man stepped out of the shadows, his skin so unnaturally pale he seemed to glow. Livid red eyes, slits for nostrils, exuding an iciness that made Harry feel as if a dementor touched his heart — Lord Voldemort stood before him. His lip-less mouth formed a smile.

"Hello Harry."

No.

No, no, no

"I apologize for Tom's heavy-handedness." Voldemort crossed the room to him; the Horcrux, scowling, remained by the fireplace. "Patience is not one of his virtues, but I take it you already know that." Voldemort stepped right before him and Harry felt himself rise a half inch more so they were eye to eye.

"Incredible," Voldemort breathed. He took Harry in from head to foot. "Harry Potter. You are very far from home. You fell through a portal, I take it? Or a dimensional disturbance?"

Harry's heart thundered.

"That is very rare," Voldemort remarked. "The Unspeakables would be beside themselves if they got hold of you."

Harry swallowed and Voldemort's smile grew. His eyes traveled up to Harry's forehead, but unlike the Horcrux's reaction, fascination and hunger burned in his gaze. "Such a curious shape." His fingers brushed Harry's fringe out of the way; a fingertip traced the scar. "How did you come by it?"

Harry's heart skipped a beat.

"What?"

"It's obvious that our two worlds are different," said Voldemort. "No Dark Mark and now this puzzling scar. My Harry, you see," he added with an almost conspiratorial air — like a friend sharing a secret — "does not have one."

Harry reeled. No scar? But if the Harry of this world did not have a scar … The Prophecy. What had happened to the Prophecy?

"But what appears to remain the same," Voldemort continued, "is your bond with Tom. Not only are you familiar with him, you are quite close. Enough so that you believed he would help you." Two slender fingers gently grasped Harry's chin. "Talk to me," Voldemort said softly. "I will listen."

Listen and then kill me, Harry thought.

"Your scar," Voldemort pressed, his fingers squeezing slightly. "Who gave it to you?"

"No one. I was in a car crash."

The Horcrux rolled his eyes and Voldemort looked almost disappointed.

"Oh, Harry. This could have been painless."

And before Harry could brace himself, before he'd even taken another breath, Voldemort attacked. He dove inside Harry's mind, a storm of razors.

Harry stared up into Hagrid's beaming, bearded face. 'No one ever lived after he decided ter kill 'em, no one except you … Somethin' about you stumped him, all right.'

Voldemort tore through Harry's memories.

A man with two faces … A sixteen year old boy screaming and dissolving as Harry plunged a fang deep inside a diary … A graveyard with an enormous cauldron shooting sparks into the night … A skeletally thin man rising from its depths … A golden design of a flower on the ceiling … A manor house on a tiny island …

No.

Voldemort, but young. Voldemort, but Tom.

Without warning, Voldemort retreated and Harry struggled for breath. The glow of the fireplace stabbed his eyes, sunbursts of light exploding behind his irises — the effects of Legilimency.

The Horcrux's steps were quick. "What is it?" he demanded. "What did you see?"

Voldemort ignored him. Instead he gripped Harry by the chin tightly and Harry was nothing against the onslaught; he could have been fifteen again. Razors and knives. Knives and saws. He was shredded. Voldemort plunged deeper, searching …

Swords glinting in the sunlight; an ocean breeze kicking up sand …

Get out! Harry screamed. Get out!

Tom flashing him a smile while showing him how to pry open an oyster. Tom saving him from Strangleweed and then nearly killing him afterward. Tom pushing him up against the sink in the Carcerem's dark kitchen … Tom's lips … Tom's tongue … Tom in his bed … 'I have forgiven you.'

Get out! Get out!

Tom sitting across from him in the Ministry holding cells and then leaning casually against their shared cubicle wall. Ice skating on the pond behind the Burrow, Harry's feet slipping out from under him, making the pair of them crash in a laughing heap in front of everyone … Tom's hands … Tom's eyes … Sitting together in a bed of rose petals … 'Isn't it obvious?'

"GET OUT!"

Harry crashed to the floor. Fleetingly, he realized the ropes had been severed along with the charm keeping him upright, but he could barely breathe much less leap to his feet. He could have been on the deck of a ship for how the floor swayed beneath him. He curled onto his side, clutching his throbbing head. He'd forgotten what it felt like to be cleaved in two.

"What is it?" the Horcrux said sharply again, angry. "What's wrong?"

"Where is Harry?" Voldemort hissed.

"Somewhere," said the Horcrux. "The Malfoys are looking for him."

"Somewhere?" said Voldemort quietly. "Your charge is somewhere?"

Even as Harry shook on the ground, tremors raking through him like aftershocks of electrocution, he sensed the danger. So, too, did the Horcrux.

"If you feel that it is important that I locate him, I will."

"Good," Voldemort breathed.

Through streaming eyes, Harry saw the Horcrux stride past him. The fireplace whooshed into life, the room momentarily bathed in green. Harry knew Voldemort watched him; he felt his glare like twin spotlights.

"Such a different world you come from."

Harry swallowed. His nails bit into the grains of the floorboards. Voldemort's robes slithered softly as he circled him.

"How did you do it?" Voldemort whispered.

Trembling with the effort, Harry managed to rise onto his forearms.

"Do what?" he spat.

Voldemort made no move to stop him as he sat up, resting his back against a wall. If his legs would just stop shaking—

"You can tell me everything now, or die a slow, agonizing death as I pull the truth from you," said Voldemort.

"What does it matter?" Harry fired back. "I'm not from here. I have nothing to do with you."

Voldemort shook his head, eyes burning. "I must know." His teeth were barred. "You stopped my reign. How? How did you defeat me? How did you learn my secrets?"

"I didn't defeat you," Harry replied. "You defeated yourself."

"Crucio!"

A thousand knives. Skin peeling from muscle. Muscle stripping from bone. Hazily, Harry found himself upright again, hovering as he had before, Voldemort's face inches from his own.

"Show me."

.


xXx

Granger was livid. His spell had destroyed her Portkey.

"Where am I supposed to go now?" she seethed, clutching her injured hand.

"I'm perfectly capable of making you another," said Tom. "Where do you want to go?"

Granger looked flabbergasted, the wind snatched from her sails.

"You can't go around making Portkeys!" Aberforth raged. He'd left them to send Dumbledore Tom's message and had just stepped back inside the kitchen. "You-Know-Who's sniffer dogs will be on us in seconds!"

"Sniffer dogs?" said Tom, a headache forming behind his eyes.

Aberforth stormed toward him. "Hodags, you fucking moron!"

"Hodags wouldn't sense a Portkey's creation," said Tom.

"They do when they're crossed with those Muggle bloodhounds. Where the fuck did you find this idiot?" he asked Granger.

"It is of no consequence," said Tom through gritted teeth. If Aberforth said another goddamn word — "Granger, I'll get you to where you need to be after I've found Harry."

"He as much of a moron as you?" asked Aberforth.

"Do you want me to kill you?" Tom snarled.

Aberforth rolled up his sleeves. "I'd take your punk ass right here, right now. Come on!"

"If a referee was all you needed, Aberforth, you know I'm always happy to oblige."

Granger gasped, Aberforth's lips pursed and Tom stiffened. Albus Dumbledore with his half-moon glasses and benign smile stood in the kitchen doorway.

"But I suspect," Dumbledore added as his eyes shifted from his brother to Tom, "that that was not the reason for your message."

"Jackass wants to see you," Aberfroth growled, jutting a thumb at Tom. "I've also got a Muggle-born in need of transit as jackass destroyed my last Portkey."

"I see. Aberforth, you'll need to join Miss Granger" — Granger jerked at the sound of her name — "until the coast is clear to return. Are you packed?"

Grumbling darkly, Aberforth stomped from the kitchen.

"You know who I am?" said Granger, amazed.

"Of course," said Dumbledore. "You were the brightest of your year."

Tom was used to hearing this. Harry and Weasley often threw about similar remarks, but instead of flushing with embarrassed pride, a cloud seemed to settle over Granger's features.

"Sir, I want to join the Order."

"Are you quite sure? It is a very dangerous occupation."

"Yes," said Granger fiercely. "I want to help."

"Very well," said Dumbledore. "Ah, Aberforth! Ready?"

A battered, peeling suitcase in tow, Aberforth slouched toward them. Dumbledore pulled from his pocket a used candy wrapper, placed his wand tip to it and it glowed a vibrant blue.

"Tell Arabella the situation," he told them, handing the wrapper to Aberforth. "I'll be in touch soon."

Granger just managed to touch a corner of the colored paper before they vanished.

"I estimate ten seconds before the hodags are upon us," Dumbledore informed Tom, turning to him. "They patrol Hogsmeade, you see. I know of a safer location that will allow us to talk properly. I suspect that you have much to tell me, Tom."

Unlike Granger, Tom did not flinch at the sound of his name. He glared. Rueful, he removed his transfigurations. No matter how hard he tried, time and time again, Dumbledore always saw straight through him.

He narrowed his eyes. "You know I'm different. You know I'm not the Tom of this world."

"Of course," said Dumbledore, cheerful. The sounds of barking dogs reached Tom's ears. "I can state emphatically that I have never had the pleasure of your company. Shall we be off?"

Dumbledore held out his hand. Tom hesitated for only a second before grasping his wrist. A breath later, salt wind hit Tom with the strength of a hurricane. He released his grip on Dumbledore and turned on the spot. He had set them down upon a stripped bare rock in the middle of the ocean. Waves crashed upon the craggy sides, spraying them both.

"So," said Dumbledore, as if they were picking up the threads of an interrupted conversation over tea, "Fawkes?"

Tom steeled himself.

"You know me. You recognized me immediately."

"Yes," Dumbledore agreed.

"And therefore you know that I would never come to you unless I was desperate."

Dumbledore's face was grave. "Very true."

"So there is so reason for me to lie to you. Correct?"

Dumbledore's beard whipped in the wind, his plum-colored robes twisting around his ankles. He clasped his hands and waited for Tom to continue. As clouds blocked out the sun, Tom told him everything.

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xXx

Harry spat out a mouthful of blood. He was alive. How could he still be alive?

He blinked, wondering how many times he'd been knocked unconscious today. There was a number that was safe before brain damage set it, but it eluded him and Harry, numbly, agreed that it wasn't particularly helpful information anyway. Wincing, he tried to sit up and found his wrists bound tightly behind his back, but that was okay. It was better to lie still. The ground was solid beneath him, dirt cool against his hot cheek. He didn't think he'd be able to stand if he tried. For a moment he thought he was in the Forbidden Forest, but why would Voldemort dump him there? Maybe the man watched from around a tree, waiting for an Acromantula to eat him whole, but as Harry's throbbing brain slowly caught up with his senses, he knew this was not the Forbidden Forest. It was lusher, warmer, vibrant. Tropical. He peered upward at the deep green canopy, tree branches crisscrossing overhead, bedecked with moss and vines. The softened light helped his stinging eyes. It helped soothe his pounding head. Harry frowned, narrowing his eyes. The pale cream of a ceiling was just visible through the canopy. He was in a room, bewitched into a forest. Why would Voldemort put him here and not a dungeon?

It didn't matter. Harry had more pressing matters to contend with. Grimacing, he sat up and rested his back against a tree. He gasped at the contact, his back aching as badly as his skull.

It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter.

Harry steadied his breathing. He shut his eyes, focusing upon the ropes cutting into his wrists. Tom had been teaching him wandless magic. It was a skill most wizards never mastered, both from the difficulty and the lack of efficiency. There was a reason wizards had invented wands. Wands condensed and enhanced magic. Channeled it. Controlled it. Even Tom struggled with wandless, stating emphatically to always — always — use wands.

"Then why bother learn wandless?" Harry had grumbled after listening to Tom's lecture and not feeling remotely confident.

"Because you might find yourself without a wand. That's why."

In the cool and dark, surrounded by damp vegetation and the sounds of buzzing insects, Harry reached out to the magic binding his hands.

What color is it? asked Tom.

Storm-cloud purple, same as yours. So dark it could be black.

Good, Tom praised, his voice so clear inside Harry's head he could have been sitting right next to him. Seeing the color makes it tangible. How does it feel against your skin?

Cold. So cold it's hot. That doesn't make any sense.

It is what it is. Don't get distracted by logic. Use your senses. Focus.

Harry grimaced, ignoring the stabbing pain behind his eyes, the throbbing pulses that spoke of far more than just a headache. Don't think about that. Focus. He saw the ropes in his mind's eye; he listened to their beats and swells. They were familiar. So very familiar. Like hooks teasing apart a knot, Harry slipped his own magic through the rope's threads. Slowly, achingly slowly, he felt them loosen.

Focus, Tom urged.

Focussss.

Harry's eyes snapped open, the word turning into a hiss that kept going and going. The lower leaves of the shrub before him rustled and the white body of a ninazu slithered into view. Before living with Tom, Harry wouldn't have recognized the five foot long snake with its slender, alabaster scales and liquid sun-burst eyes, but when Tom had learned that Rolf had one in his trusted briefcase, Harry had heard nothing else for weeks.

Far smaller in stature than a basilisk or Runespoor, ninazus made up for their size in their venom, so potent a single drop could burn a hole in metal and its gleaming eyes were locked on him.

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xXx

Up and down, Voldemort paced, his intestines twisting in a fashion that was foreign to him. Fear, he realized. Fear and vulnerability.

Coincidence did not exist. This boy … this other version of his prophesied killer had landed in his world for a reason. Voldemort's magic crackled beneath his skin. The memories pried from the boy's mind raced through his own. They were impossible. Outrageous. Inconceivable. For his counterpart to fall in love? For his reign to end because of the charms of a teenager?

The glass doors of a wine cabinet shattered, the bottles and decanters exploding like bombs. It was a good thing he'd locked the boy away in the Serpent House or he would have turned his wand on him there and then and murdered him in a blaze of green.

The Carcerem. He had not thought of that device in decades.

Legs a tangle, fingers interlaced, a messy-haired boy arching, breathlessly gasping, Tom, Tom.

Revolted, Voldemort pushed the memory of his counterpart and Potter away. He'd never been tempted to Obliviate himself until now. Allowing the Locket to enter relations with Harry was one thing, but this. This was different. This was unacceptable. This was him. The original. The creator and master. For Lord Voldemort to debase himself, to lower himself to the whims of another. To love…

Sex was a tool to control and manipulate, but what he'd seen in Potter's memories was nothing of the sort. The knowledge that in a different universe Lord Voldemort allowed himself to sink so low — an Auror? A babysitter? Had he really seen himself buy a toddling child ice cream?

Voldemort's hands clenched, longing to wrap around a neck — any neck. It couldn't have just been the Carcerem's doing. Something else must have happened. What had Potter done? How had he hoodwinked the greatest wizard in the world? For twenty years — ever since he'd heard the Prophecy — Voldemort had implemented an unbeatable plan to fortify himself from destruction. He'd thought he'd been successful, but now …

For the first time Voldemort found himself uncertain. The choice to let the Locket entangle himself with Harry was suddenly full of risks that he had not seen until now. The Locket had become bold of late. Borderline mutinous. Was this Harry's doing? Was the Horcrux too falling under the spell of the green-eyed youth? Was this how self-destruction began? Beneath his very nose, was Harry gaining the upper hand?

Again, the memory of himself — so young, as young as the Locket — appeared. Taking Potter's face in his hands and kissing him like the boy was everything. Like he was magic itself.

AND HE SHALL HAVE POWER THE DARK LORD KNOWS NOT…

Sybill Trelawney's words echoed in Voldemort, words that had stilled his hand when he'd gone to Lily Potter nineteen years ago. What power? What power did Lord Voldemort not know? What secret eluded the conqueror of wizarding Britain? He took Harry Potter and Neville Longbottom as infants. He raised them, looking, always looking for this power. He'd seen a wildness in Harry and so his choice had been clear, but though the boy was strong, though the boy was impressive, no other-worldly power presented itself.

Harry could not wield the Silence.

Had Voldemort made a mistake? Did the Prophecy not speak of the Harry Potter who bore his Dark Mark, but of another? Another from a different world? One with a lightning bolt scar? Did it speak instead of a boy who'd already brought a dark lord to his knees?

Broken glass crunched under Voldemort's steps. He'd give the boy a few hours to recuperate before prying open his mind again. It would do no good for Potter to die before he'd learned everything.

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xXx

Iron-gray clouds swirled overhead; the wind turned blistering as rain drops fell. Dumbledore stood silently on the rock. A significant part of Tom did not miss the irony. Here he was, spilling every secret, every wrong-doing and every truth to the one person he'd sworn he never would. For practically Tom's entire life, he'd seen Dumbledore's penchant for forgiveness a folly. The Carcerem had changed that. Harry had changed that. For both their sakes everything clung to the chance of an old man doing the impossible and giving Tom a second chance.

"Do you believe me?"

Dumbledore's face was unreadable, as always. No amount of Legilimency had ever been able to break through his shields.

"Yes," Dumbledore said at last and relief nearly made Tom lose his balance in the battering wind. "This world you have landed in is far different from the one you are used to. I shall go into the details later. For now, we must find Harry."

"The factory in Wiltshire," said Tom at once. "Granger saw him, but it's been placed under a protection that I can't break."

"Protections no one can break," Dumbledore added grimly. "Once those shields are in place, no one can enter or leave until they are removed."

"By that time Harry may be dead!"

"I do not believe they will kill Harry," Dumbledore disagreed.

Tom's heart beat faster. "You know where Harry is. Where—"

Dumbledore held up his hand, and Tom bristled. "It is a place that is not safe for either of us, but there is someone who can help." He pulled from his robe pocket a fiery red feather. With a twirl of his wand, the feather vanished in a puff of smoke.

"Come." Dumbledore strode to him, once more holding out his arm. "It will not be long before we have word."

"Where are we going?" Tom demanded.

"A safe house. It is the most secure place I can offer you and Harry, once he is returned to us. From there, we will work on a way to send you both back to your world." Apologetically, Dumbledore added, "I must request that you transfigure yourself once more."

With an irritable jerk of his wand, Tom acquiesced, donning the same blond hair and mustache he had before.

"Let us be off," said Dumbledore.

A second later, they appeared on a stretch of empty marsh.

"Safe house three resides on the Murk Fields," Dumbledore stated calmly and when Tom turned his attention back to the overgrown wetland it was to see a single, small cottage.

"You really do trust me," said Tom, unnerved.

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. He set off, heading toward the house; Tom hurried after him, his shoes sinking slightly in the soggy ground.

"Will this person be able to get Harry out from wherever he's being held?" Tom pressed. "Because if he can't —"

"He will," said Dumbledore. "He is immensely resourceful. Plucking prisoners is nothing new for him."

It was difficult not to feel insulted, but Tom reminded himself that he was not the Lord Voldemort of this world. After all, he would not have prisoners vanishing under his nose, except … that elf, Dobby, had removed Harry and his friends from Malfoy Manor, completely bypassing Tom's enchantments. He quickened his pace.

"Are you using a house elf?" he asked.

Dumbledore looked amused. "He would be very insulted if he knew you called him that."

Tom grew impatient. "Then who —"

They were nearly at the house's front steps when the door burst open and a man emerged, rushing out to meet them. Tom stopped dead in his tracks.

James Potter.

Tom grabbed Dumbledore by the arm.

"Did you not listen to anything I told you?" he hissed. "Harry can't stay here. I can't stay here. I killed that man."

"There is nowhere else that is safer," said Dumbledore gravely.

"Don't play your twisted games with me, Dumbledore," Tom spat as James Potter grew closer. "I want a safe house that is empty."

"You asked for my help," Dumbledore replied. "Trust me, Tom."

Tom ground his teeth. This was horrible. This was worse. Worse than worse. This was Fate and Irony spitting all over him. He suddenly did not think his disguise was nearly strong enough and as James Potter, looking so very much like Harry, stepped before them, Tom wondered if there was a hint of recognition in his eyes.

"Dumbledore," said James. "Has something happened?"

"Yes. I have news. Is Lily available?"

James nodded. His gaze shifted back to Tom.

"You okay?" he asked, which made perfect sense, as Tom had paled severely at Dumbledore's words. He cut a furious glare at the old man. Harry's mother, too? Who else was alive in this fucking world?

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xXx

Harry had always found parseltongue disturbing. The bone-chilling spitting and hissing made shivers run up and down his spine, but when Rolf begged Tom for help in mastering the language, Harry found himself changing his opinion, the soft, sibilant sounds issuing from Tom's mouth turning into something almost hypnotic.

The ninazu lifted its triangular head and flicked a blue tongue.

"Hello," Harry said in an overly bright, cheerful voice though sweat slid down between his shoulder blades.

The snake cocked its head and Harry concentrated hard on the string of hisses.

"You speak my language?" said the ninazu, sounding startled.

"Yes," Harry hissed back. "A little."

"The other one does not." The ninazu slithered closer. "You look like him but you don't smell right. Master does not like you," the snake added, almost as an afterthought.

"No," Harry agreed, feeling that lying to a ninazu was as dangerous as insulting a hippogriff. "He doesn't."

"Why?"

Harry blinked. That was a long story, most of which he didn't know half the words to. His head began to pound again.

"He's … angry with me."

The ninazu's head swayed from side to side.

"Did he tell you to" — Harry struggled for the right words; Kill? Maim? — "hurt me?"

"Skusss." Watch.

Voldemort had given him a jailer. Harry desperately brought back every lesson Tom had given him.

"I'm … lost," Harry told the snake. "I want … I want …" What was parseltongue for home? "Friend," Harry said instead. "I've lost my friend."

"The other boy?"

The pain in Harry's head and spine were becoming difficult to ignore. He screwed up his face, wondering if he hadn't heard the snake right. "Other boy?"

"Yes." The snake's forked tongue flicked inches from Harry's nose. "The boy with toads. Do you have toads?"

"No, but I can get you toads," said Harry, thinking fast.

It was difficult to read a snake's expression, but Harry had the feeling it was tempted.

"Master said—"

"It can be our secret."

The ninazu swayed with greater agitation.

"Let me go," said Harry, "and I'll bring you lots of toads."

"Fat toads?"

"Sl pvist," Harry replied. The fattest.

The ninazu released an exuberant hiss and darted to the right, vanishing behind a tree so fast it could have been on wheels.

"This way!"

"Hold on!" Harry yelled after it. He wouldn't be able to do anything if he couldn't get his hands free. Grimacing against the sick pulsations inside his skull, he closed his eyes and began the tortuously slow process all over again. Gently, he plucked at the threads of magic around his wrists, teasing them apart but they were so slippery they could have been made of oil. A bead of sweat ran down his face.

He heard the ninazu slither back to him. Or he hoped it was the ninazu.

"Why aren't you coming?" it asked, impatient.

"Just … a bit …"

Yes!

The spell dispersed and Harry's hands were free. He clambered to his feet but almost immediately lost his balance. He reached out and gripped the tree for support, the world spinning.

"You look ill," the ninazu observed.

"It's not my best day," Harry agreed.

"Toads will make you better!" and the snake disappeared again through the underbrush.

Not entirely confident he'd translated that correctly, Harry stumbled after it.

"Slow down," Harry whispered. Now that he was up and moving, the thought that perhaps the ninazu was not the only snake inside the jungle room hit Harry. He knew Voldemort. Hell, if he let Tom have his own snake house it would be filled to the rafters with Horned Serpents and … Harry paled. Basilisks. He broke into an unsteady run. The white tip of the ninazu's tail turned onto a path and Harry, hurrying after it, found himself before a large pair of double doors. Harry grabbed the handle —

Locked.

Harry let out a curse of frustration. Undoing knots was one thing, but breaking through locks — he'd never been able to do that.

"Problem?"

Harry looked down. Twined around his ankles, the ninazu looked up at him, its blue tongue tasting the air.

"Do you" — Harry grimaced, struggling for the words — "Exit. Another exit."

"Why?" it asked, puzzled.

"It's locked."

"Then open it," said the ninazu.

"I can't," said Harry, angry. To prove it, he grasped the handle and gave it a yank and his eyes landed upon the carvings in the honey oak. Oh.

Two snakes were etched into the wood, their eyes inlaid with jewels. It was just like the sealed doors in the Chamber of Secrets.

The word slid on Harry's tongue. "Open."

The doors creaked on their hinges, swinging outward.

"Toads!" cried the ninazu like a child outside a candy shop and before Harry could take a step, the snake shot up his leg, slithering up his calf.

Harry froze as it moved up his body, coiling around his shoulders.

"Toads," it repeated, tongue tickling his ear.

Harry shivered. "Why don't you wait here and I'll bring them—"

The ninazu hissed sharply.

"Okay! Okay!"

Looking both ways, Harry slipped through the doors and flinched, shutting his eyes against the glare. The brightly lit corridor was triply enhanced by white marble floors and walls. His head pounded; his eyes watered. He feared he'd pass out.

"What is wrong?" asked the ninazu.

"I can't see," Harry hissed. How was he going to find a way out if he couldn't see? "The toads are outside. Can you help me? I need to find a way out without anyone seeing me."

"Secret?"

"Yes. Secret, yes! He's angry, remember."

"Left," said the ninazu in his ear.

Squinting, Harry did as the snake instructed. This must be what it was like to be in a desert with nothing but sun reflecting off miles and miles of white sand. His mind was full of nails and each step, each blinding prick of light, drove them deeper.

"Stop!"

Harry jerked at the ninazu's order. The snake shifted slightly on his shoulders.

"Someone is coming."

A second later, Harry heard quick footsteps.

"They are coming around the corner," the ninazu told him in a rush. "They smell —"

But Harry didn't know the word the ninazu used.

"I don't under—"

"Strike!"

Harry took that as the ninazu's word for tackle and so he jumped blindly. He collided with something very solid that cried out in alarm. Eyes squeezed shut, Harry grappled with the unknown person. They rolled on the ground. Harry heard the ninazu hissing and spitting; the stranger let out a strangled curse and the wind was knocked out of Harry as something very hard whacked him in the stomach. Reeling, Harry fell backward.

"Get that fucker away from me, boy!"

Eyes streaming, gripping his stomach, Harry peered at the person he'd jumped.

It wasn't a wizard. It was a goblin.

He was plastered up against a wall, brandishing a cane at the furious ninazu. Harry blinked his eyes, hard. He looked like…

"Goddammit, boy!" Mrunog Gudar raged. "I'm here to help!"

The goblin representative, the goblin who'd been kidnapped by the Tebo for spurring his fellow goblins into discussions of wand rights was being backed into a corner.

"Stop!" Harry hissed at the ninazu.

"Why?" it spat back at Harry.

Harry looked up at Mrunog's wrinkled, round face. "Why are you helping me?"

"Dumbledore sent me," he growled, still holding the ninazu back with his cane.

Harry was so thrilled, so amazed, that the pain in his body was forgotten. He scrambled to his feet and scooped up the ninazu.

"Dumbledore knows about me?"

"Of course he knows about you!" Mrunog barked. "Why would I be here if he didn't? You Order fools are getting more imbecilic by the day. Why you chose to impersonate him for starters …"

The Order? Dumbledore? Harry couldn't believe it. Finally, things were going his way.

"Keep that devil away from me," said Mrunog, glaring at the ninazu. "Quick, boy!"

Mrunog's short strides strode down the stretch of corridor at a fast clip, Harry rushing after him.

"This way, this way!" Mrunog urged, opening a door and looking both ways.

Harry descended a set of steps, the light dimming and air cooling. Dust tickled his nose and as he followed Mrunog down the steps he spotted wine barrels. A cellar. They paused at the foot of the stairs. Harry heard the high-pitched squeaks of house-elves and smelt the delicious aroma of fresh baked bread.

Mrunog led him away from the kitchen, winding deeper into the depths of the cellar, moving past crates and crates of candlesticks. Wound around Harry's shoulders, the ninazu tasted the air curiously.

"Here." Mrunog came to a stop, standing before a grimy section of stone wall.

Harry, his stinging eyes calming in the gloom, looked around, expecting Dumbledore to appear from the shadows, but there was no one.

"Where's —"

"SHHH!" Glowering, Mrunog lifted a long-fingered hand and trailed a sharp, black nail down the stonework. A thin, golden line appeared. He continued to run his nail until the outline of a door burned into life.

"Go!" said Mrunog. "And don't be stupid enough to get caught again, you fucking bastard."

Harry wanted to know where Mrunog was sending him. "Is Dumbledore —"

"Go!" And showing more strength than Harry would have thought of the squat goblin, Mrunog shoved Harry hard in the back. On instinct, the ninazu tightened its coils around his throat and Harry fell through the stonewall and kept falling as if he'd jumped right off the edge of a cliff.

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Author's Note:

We all know that very young wizards and witches will demonstrate accidental magic. We also know that Harry has used wandless magic in the books (Prisoner and Phoenix come to mind) when he was extremely upset. And we know that Tom at a very young age had already gained enough control of his magic to use it on purpose (ie wandless). But, the fact remains that in canon wands hold a bigger role of importance than using magic without them. I can imagine that you could learn to use magic entirely without a wand, as it's mentioned on Pottermore that some cultures do, but that's a skill you'd have to learn and I imagine it would be a very, very hard one. As fun as it is for Harry to suddenly be all powerful and doing all kinds of magic without a wand, it's never felt very realistic to me. I like him struggling with certain kinds of magic. It makes him relatable.

Also, I love the idea of Tom teaching Harry parseltongue. I have to admit that I was a bit bummed that Ron could speak it in book 7 (it was Harry's thing!), but so too can Dumbledore. It's a language, pure and simple, and all languages can be learned. I like to imagine that because it's seen as a Dark Wizard's language it's been stigmatized and shunned. I can see that there probably aren't very many help books on it and that the best way to learn it would be from someone fluent in it, which at this point, would just be Tom.