It is a marvel Harry Potter is not dead. That's Harry's train of thought while he lies in the floor of a far too dirty cell, doing sit ups. It's a marvel and, more than that, from the astonished looks of the guards when Voldemort ordered them to be jailed, not killed -- it's also a mystery.

Harry hums absently. What a legacy he'd leave, if he really does end up dying here. First killing Voldemort as a child, then biting the tip of his finger off as a teen. Who can say the same?

(But a part of Harry questions if Voldemort one and Voldemort two are even remotely in the same category. If anything in the palace he has found himself is.)

Though Harry would prefer it if he'd survive this whole ordeal. Hilarious as it is, biting off his finger is not enough payback. He wants him dead. And if Harry's not alive to at least see someone else kill him off, he can't consider this a life well spent.

He'd like, also, to get back to his friends. He frowns. Who knows how the battle went when he and Sirius up and disappeared? With Harry presumed dead? And...

And no prophecy, either. Harry winces. He'd carried it in with him through the Veil, but he had no idea where it was now. Most likely, he'd dropped it on the way out the other side and it had settled in the dirt somewhere.

Which meant a few things. It was either in this Voldemort's possession or lost at a point where Harry could not even hope to get it. And that Harry Potter -- and Harry Potter's side -- had lost. No Harry, no Sirius, no apparently-very-valuable prophecy. To them, it must seem like the end of the world.

Harry jiggles his wrist absently. They had thrown a silver bracelet on him -- decorated how ironically appropriate with a snake, biting its own tail -- and shoved him into this cell. Sirius had been with him for a while, a matching bracelet donning his wrist, but they'd dragged him off for questioning.

There were no guards to supervise him -- no Muggle cameras or obvious supervision charms -- which Harry first assumed meant he'd be able to try and use wandless magic to escape.

But Harry felt no magic in his chest and nothing rose to his command. No spells, no sparks.

A magic suppressing charm bracelet. Hermione might even call it clever.

So Harry'd spent the last hour and a half doing various forms of exercises; keeping his mind off his looming failure and flimsy safety; the also unknown condition of any of his friends or known enemies. Thinking about such things left him relentless and he knows a relentless soldier is not a good one.

So. Sit ups it was. Occasionally the aftertaste of blood -- a delicious, coppery concoction that would not taste as good if it came from anyone else -- would become too overwhelming and he'd force himself to stop and hawk up some of the buildup.

It was disgusting. Honestly and obviously disgusting -- but it was Voldemort's blood. And hurting his greatest adversary, for some reason, made the sour flavor in his mouth turn sweet.

Harry stops his sit ups in a resting position when the door opens and Sirius Black -- looking much more tired than last he'd seen him, but not any more hurt -- enters; arms held by two guards in those very, very out of place uniforms.

He gets a good look at their weapons. Everything about them is out of place.

But maybe it's Harry who's out of place. Maybe everything else is as it should be -- as it always has been -- and it's Harry who's odd here.

Who knows. Anything's possible.

Sirius Black is shoved into his cell roughly. It is locked. And then the guards, impossibly, start to leave. "Hey!" shouts Harry, rising to his feet, banging a first against the bars. "Hey, bimbos! You're not going to drag me out for questioning? What, am I not special enough for my own go at it? I probably know more than Sirius does!"

He pops his fingers, letting them relax into a fist. The moment they got close enough...

He does not have magic right now, but Harry Potter thinks himself an improviser. He has no tolerance for bullies and plans to knock the shit out of the one closest to him.

But one of the guards wave their hand on the way out, saying, "You're classified as a threat. We're not to handle you."

Harry deflates. Never before has he been so disappointed in the validation he's considered strong enough not to deal with.

The door closes with a sad click. Harry clears his throat and leans his head through the bars, trying to get a good look at Sirius. "How you holding up?"

"Fine," says Sirius. "Fine." Then, quieter, "I don't handle prisons well."

Harry's frown deepens. "I know," he says. "Are you gunna be okay?"

"Better question is, are you? I can't believe, " he mutters, "you got cursed, and you didn't even do anything that wrong."

"Well," says Harry, "I kind of did afterward. I bit Voldemort's finger off, remember?" He laughs a bit. "Tried to bite his nose off, too."

Sirius goes silent.

Harry laughs, more nervously this time. "Sirius?"

"That was... You-Know-Who? I knew he looked familiar, but he's... he's too young. And he's not supposed to be here." He'd dealt with the man pre-resurrection and pre-death, so it's not like Sirius had not seen the face before. But the idea of two Voldemorts... it was preposterous and, in his mind, impossible.

Harry swallows. "It's a funny thing," says Harry, blandly. "But I think we're the ones that aren't supposed to be here."

Sirius laughs. "Oh, lordy, you can say that again."

"Like, those Auror's uniforms?"

"Right!" Sirius laughs. "Fashion nightmare. "

"They have wooden guns." Harry pauses, then throws his hands in the air. " Wooden guns !"

"What are they gunna do," giggles Sirius. "Set themselves on fire ?"

"Yeah! That'll get 'em for sure!" Harry grins at Sirius's uncontrollable laughter. "And he was nice to me, too, before I cursed him! Like we were chums -- buddy, buddy! It was like he was greeting..." Harry stops laughing. "It was like he was greeting an entirely different person."

Sirius's laughter dies, too, but naturally. "They asked me about you," he says, once he's composed himself.

Harry perks up. "What?"

"Your interests; your hobbies; your personality. If Harry Potter was your name."

Weird. "And what'd you tell 'em?"

Sirius says, mischievous, "That he could suck my momma's toes. Honestly, it's a wonder I wasn't killed."

"Sure as hell sounds like it." Sirius gets it, too, then. That nothing they've done thus far but give Voldemort reasons not to keep them alive -- and with someone with patience as short as his...

"They asked me how we ended up here. If anyone asks, we tripped and fell through something that looked somewhat looks like what we came out of."

Harry raises an eyebrow. "They didn't question that?"

"Oh, they did."

"And what'd you say?"

"Told them that they could suck my momma's toes, of course."

Harry laughs, sliding down to a sitting position on the floor. "You're absolutely right. You should've been murdered five times over by now, and they didn't even curse you."

"I know. But I can't say I'm complaining... They asked me who I was, too. My parentage; where I lived; what I worked as, stuff like that. I gave them as vague as answers as possible," says Sirius. "But all of it seemed to be new information to them; or different, at least. Death eaters -- they've got files on everyone, Harry, everyone who opposes them and everyone that might. They should know who I am, but it was if these followers were talking to..."

"... An entirely different person," finishes Harry. They sit in silence -- uncomfortable and heavy -- before Harry adds, looking at his injured hands, "Magic works differently here." Where is here?

"I know," says Sirius. "Got my good hand, too."

"Voldemort is president," lists off Harry. "Death Eaters don't know who either of us is; Aurors dress like Dumbledore; wooden magical guns are a thing; casting spells with a wand is cartoon-only behavior." He drops his hands. "And both of us are alive right now. Alive and," he huffs, "For the most part, unharmed."

Sirius exhales slowly. "It's..."

"It's real fucked up," says Harry. "It means we're not in our world anymore. This isn't our Voldemort. This isn't our Death Eaters."

"And we're not their Sirius Black or Harry Potter, are we?"

"No," says Harry. "We're not."

Sirius says, quietly, "If we could figure that out this easily..."

He does not finish the thought, but he doesn't need to. Harry gets the point anyway: if they can, then Voldemort can, too. And likely, already has.

...

Food appears in their cells. They eat dinner, together in silence. Worry ruins his appetite -- does this world's Voldemort have the prophecy? Are Ron and Hermione okay; are they alive? Is Umbridge still dictating the school? Where are we? -- but he eats as much as he can stomach anyway. The portions are small as it is and Harry knows that without proper protein intake, your body will want to lose muscle instead of fat.

Harry laughs to himself, hysterically and out of nowhere.

"What's so funny?" asks Sirius.

"I'm in another universe," he says between breaths, "Trapped, with no obvious way home -- and I'm fretting over my fitness diet ."

"I never got your fuss with that stuff."

No, Harry supposes. You wouldn't. "You're just jealous I can destroy you in arm wrestling," he says. "I beat up Malfoy once," he adds, just to brag.

"No shit? And you didn't tell me?"

"Well, I'm telling you now, aren't I?" Harry rolls his eyes, shoving a piece of overdone steak in his mouth. "Besides," he says, muffled, "I didn't even get that far past bodyslamming him."

" Harry. "

"I can't tell if that was a disappointed 'Harry,' or an impressed one."

"Impressed, obviously. Who do you think I am, McGonagall? "

"Good point," says Harry. "He was shit talking Mione. Called her a slur during Potions and Snape -- that god damned, devil sucking, asshat -- just let him! Just let Mione get literally hatecrimed right in class. Gaslit her about it, too."

"So you took things into your own hands," says Sirius.

"Duh. And Hermione said it was 'the worst idea I've ever had,' which is a bold claim, because I've had a lot of worse ideas. I approached the little brat and he said he wished there were slurs exclusively for half bloods, just so he could call me it."

"And you bodyslammed him?"

"No. I got Ron to distract him first -- his attention moved to him, then I bodyslammed him. Broke my arm on the fall, but, hey, you should've seen the other guy. Then I got detention for two weeks. You win some," he shrugs. "And you half-win others."

Sirius whistles. "Probably why Hermione advocated against it."

"Yeah," says Harry. "Yeah, probably." He frowns, chewing slowly. He misses her. She was right, about the trap. She should be calling him a numbskull -- giving him that 'told you so' speech she always has on lock -- ... but Harry's not with her right now.

Hermione likely thinks him dead.

"She knew," he says. "And I didn't listen to her. She knew it was a trap. He used visions of you to get me there... so he could get the prophecy, right?"

"Yeah."

"Why didn't you tell me? That this is what he's been after?"

A pause. "We couldn't. We couldn't put you in danger--"

"But I was in danger," protests Harry. "Or I put myself in it. Because I didn't know it was that kind of dangerous." Like Sirius does not handle prisons well, Harry can't handle ignorance.

"I know," says Sirius. "... And I'm sorry."

"Is Dumbledore?" Leaving the school in the hands of a madwoman. Telling Harry nothing; always nothing, never enough. His parents, when he was young. About Pettigrew, during third year. And now, about this. Refusing to look him in the eyes.

He is sure the old man has his reasons. He always does and they're never bad, never malicious -- Dumbledore is on Harry's side, after all, and like Harry's side never loses, it is never wrong, either -- but he would be lying if it didn't sting.

"I'm sure he is now," says Sirius.

"Yeah," says Harry, settling back against the wall, pushing his empty plate away from him. "I'm sure he is."

...

Harry's doing pushups the following morning when Voldemort enters the room. "... fifty five, fifty six, fifty seven," says Harry quietly to himself. Sirius is betting he won't breach 200 and Harry says his personal best is double that.

Sirius siriusly doubts it.

So Harry's in the middle of trying to prove something -- and well on his way to earning Sirius' jello cup -- when Voldemort walks into the room. He has two guards on either side. He tilts his head at Harry, walking right up to his cell, completely ignoring Sirius. "What are you doing ?" he asks.

"Fifty eight," he says, lowering himself into a resting position with a breath. "Push-ups," he answers, glancing over to Voldemort. His robes are different today. They look even more expensive than last time. "Ever heard of them?"

Voldemort puts his hand on one of the bars, loosely, looking at Harry like he is an alien creature. "I have," says Voldemort evenly. "It has just been a while since I've seen someone do them."

"Yeah, what the fuck is that about?' says Harry, setting himself up. "Calling me fat, never heard of anything other than cardio, small ass servings; if you wanna kill me, you can make it quick."

Voldemort's eyebrows -- and that's weird, him having eyebrows again -- rise. "Actually," he says. "Those were rather generous servings."

"I have literally eaten bowls of porridge with more calories than everything you've served me combined."

"The average wizard eats about fifteen percent less than what we've served you." And, because even in this world he's a bitch, he adds, "No wonder you're so fat."

Sirius' angry "Hey!" was cut off with a wave of Voldemort's hand, which comes back to rest on Harry's iron bars. He taps his fingers against the metal idly; soaking in Harry's features.

Harry's gaze is drawn to that finger. "You've regrown that fast," Harry notes. "Though I would refrain from making such comments if you wish to keep it so."

"Yes," Voldemort says, ignoring the last part of his comment. The fingertip is paler and rawer than before and Harry delights in the mark he's left on him, however impermanent. "Of all the things money can buy, the best Healers in the magical world are at the top of the list."

Harry steps closer to Voldemort. "I'd back up if I were you," he says, lowly. "They say I'm classified as a threat. It's probably best if you heed that warning, to be honest."

Voldemort rolls his eyes. "Such a child." He reaches into his robes and, to Harry's astonished expression, pulls out the prophecy Harry had brought with him. "You can have your orb back. My people have ruled it free of curses and the like."

Harry gapes at him. Is he stupid? If he is, it's not Harry's problem. He grabs it from Voldemort's outstretched hand and holds it close to his chest.

Logically, he should keep his mouth shut. Do not bite that hand that feeds you; don't look a gift horse in the mouth, and all that.

But Harry's not the Brain and he has never been good at learning to shut the fuck up. He blurts, "You didn't watch the prophecy?"

Voldemort raises an eyebrow. "Prophecy?"

"About you? About me?"

"Harry. There is no such thing as prophecies."

Harry frowns. He looks at the orb in his hands and notes that it is no longer glowing yellow. He weighs it in his hands and...

And there is no magic in it.

Harry says, faintly, "Oh."

"But it's curious that you though so," says Voldemort. He's standing so close to the cell now, his face is almost inside it. "You've said a lot of curious things, really." He flicks his wrist. "The both of you."

Sirius' rambling curses stop when he realizes that now they are heard. Harry suppresses a giggle.

Voldemort is not as amused. "You," he states, "are Sirius Black. You are son of who you say you are son of. And he is Harry Potter just as much so. Our truth-telling charms have determined it. The curious part," he says, a sly and sleazy grin pasting his face, "is that you are not Harry Potter, my closest held advisor, nor Sirius Black, his partner.

"You are who you say you are, but you aren't who I know. Both of these things are true. But how can that be? How can you be Sirius Black if Sirius Black is not you ?"

He summons a chair and sits, crossed-legged, facing them, looking as pompous as ever. "The answer, quite simply, is that there are two Sirius Blacks in play; two Harry Potters. Here's what I think happened, correct me if you will; me and my Aurors and my men are doing a rather routine check of our Veil. A spell is miscast and unfortunately, my Harry and my Sirius are sent spiraling through my mostly untested invention of my Department of Mysteries."

He holds up a finger on each hand, sticking them beside each other. "And there is a universe running parallel to ours. Your universe, I presume, though there are certainly many and likely infinite.

"In your universe, you fall through the Veil -- which has been created in a way, in both universes, to act as a gate between them -- the exact same time that my Harry and my Sirius do.

"And so, my Harry and Sirius are likely, if not surely, as misplaced as you."

He sets his hands on his lap and looks at them expectantly.

What Harry notices first is that Voldemort acts as if everything belongs to him. My Harry. My Sirius. My Department. My Aurors. My men. My Veil.

He wonders if there is nothing Tom doesn't believe belongs to him.

But that is a thought for another time, especially with such important information laid out to him.

"Does that mean we can head back?" asks Harry. He clears his throat. "So we can just forget and forgive each other's grievances, move on, move forward -- and whatnot, you get it -- and you can have your buddy buddy Harry Potter back and I can go back," home, "to my realm? You send me in and Harry should come out. That's what I'm getting."

Sirius makes a hopeful sound, but Voldemort rolls his eyes. "As if I have any grievances to apologize for," he mutters.

Harry blinks at him. "You seriously do."

Sirius snickers. "Do you mean, Sirius--"

" Sirius."

"Sorry."

Voldemort looks confused at the exchange, but answers, "I acted appropriately, and to the best of my ability--"

"You literally crucio'd me."

"You tried to kill me," says Voldemort, sticking up his nose at him. "We're even, as far as I'm concerned."

"You also imprisoned me," points out Harry.

"What else was I supposed to do?"

"... Not imprison me?"

Voldemort waves his hand. "Who do you think I am?"

"Um," says Harry. "Voldemort."

Voldemort stiffens. He says, tightly, "Again with that. Your confusion, and, I admit, our grievances, from both sides, is understandable. In your universe, my father is, from what seems to be your attitude toward him, your main adversary.

"Here, my father, Voldemort, is dead.

"I go by Tom Marvolo Riddle." He adds, almost as an afterthought, "Also Mr. President."

Images of Harry's second year flash through his head. The diary, who went by Tom, too. The betrayal and Harry's hasty attempt at both revenge and survival.

His cold and cruel and mocking words. He composed himself like the Tom here does. With an arrogance you can take as confidence if you squint your eyes just right; with looks he cares for only as a tool.

Harry was betrayed by him. Tom had tried to hurt one of his friends and it didn't even matter that Tom had taken his wand because Harry tried to strangle him, full-throttle.

And then Tom played his overpowered Parseltongue card. He remembers running, screaming. He remembers grabbing ahold of its eyelid and blinding it. Having it run into a wall, unbeknownst to it.

Tom's frustrated, angry ranting. Quick to thinking but not quick enough to action.

Harry remembers yelling something. Grabbing the diary and a tooth, stuck in the wall. He remembers Tom's disgruntled, hatefully spoken words, sounding so young yet too old and nothing, no matter what anybody says, like him

And then, from Tom, silence. And then nothing.

This Tom is different, even if he, too, is nothing like Harry. He is alive, to start.

Past that, Harry is yet to be able to tell the difference.

"And, secondly," continues Tom, "sending you back, we've decided, after much speculation and consideration, is unlikely. Bordering, it's argued, on impossible."

"What?" shouts Sirius. "You can't be Siriu -- ha ha--"

Harry interrupts him. Now is no time for a dad joke... no matter how funny it is. "Why?"

"Assuming we'd need to send both of back at the same time as your matching person, timing would be nothing more than vital. We've, as of yet, no way of communicating with other universes, and, if we did, any way to tell if it the one we are trying to reach." Tom shrugs, relaxing back in his chair. "Without a way to for sure send you and your counterparts back at the same time, it is best to consider yourselves stranded."

It is the same conclusion Harry and Sirius had made hours before, but much, much bleaker.

Harry wilts at the prospect of never seeing his Ron or Hermione or Neville again. He didn't do anything -- not a thing, not a goddamned thing -- to deserve this.

Hasn't he dedicated all of his life, to the best of his ability, to combating evil? To protecting the good and fighting the bad? His friends believed in him; is that not proof enough?

Harry's shoulders hunch in on themselves. Consider yourselves stranded. His dedication to his loved ones was his life, and now it threatens to be his downfall.

The irony stings just as much.

And something... Something about the way Tom tells them all of this, like they need to know, or have a right to. It tells him Tom wants them stranded; enjoys the fact that they are sticking around, preparing for it.

Harry says, because he is not Hermione and he is not the Brain, and not surrounded by enough loved ones to care that heavily about self-preservation, "Why haven't you killed us?"

Sirius shouts, knowing better than to provoke someone like Voldemort, even if he is not him, "Harry, don--"

"No," says Tom. "It's quite alright." He turns toward Harry. "He's right. With the impossibility of getting my men returned to me, and both of you proving yourselves openly hostile toward me -- and/or whatever version of me you are familiar with -- I have, like Harry here has assumed, no good reason to keep you alive."

He stands and moves to Harry's cell again, gripping one of the bars. Harry stands his ground, raising his chin and balling up his fists.

One step closer, Harry thinks, perhaps stupidly, perhaps not caring enough about what will or will not get him killed right now.

"But you," says Tom. He taps his regrown finger, once, against the bar, "You are fascinating."

"I'm not a toy, " grunts out Harry, white-knuckled fingers pressed so hard against his palm they ache.

"I know," says Tom, leaning closer. His grin reveals teeth too white; too sharp. "And that makes this all the more fascinating." He leans back a second before Harry starts throwing hands. "And, besides, I am missing two of my best men. I am in need of a replacement, aren't I, Harry?"

"Is that why you want to keep us around?" snaps Harry, teeth gritted. "So you can carry us about like purse dogs of a rich women?"

"Harry," says Sirius, concerned, but Tom shuts him up with a wave of his hand.

Harry grits his teeth harder. "We're not your toys. We're not your pets. And I'm sure as hell not your closest advisor." Harry stares his dead in the eye. "I'd rather die." He would. He really would.

He does not belong here. He has nothing here.

Tom considers him with a tilt of the head. "Do you know why," he says, after a moment, "I have not killed your beloved godfather if it is you, and you alone, whom I wish to study?"

Harry tenses at the word study. "No," he grits out.

"Because," explains Tom, "he is dear to you. You love him. And killing him... why it would hardly put me in your good graces, would it?"

"What?" Tom Riddle, caring about whether or not Harry likes him...

Someone, he thinks, desperately, tell him he's dreaming.

"I want you around because you are entertaining," says Tom, like it's obvious. "You have a boldness, a brashness, that I have not encountered in quite some time. And your situation has made you ten times as interesting; you come from an entirely alien world that mirrors my own in only the slightest of ways.

"But also because I enjoyed Harry. Quite a bit. And it would be a shame to lose such a grand, unique friend without at least gaining one in the process."

Harry's tired of hearing about this. He has no sympathy for Dark Lords, under the title of President or not. "What does this have to do with Sirius?"

"I want you to be my friend, of course!" Him and his my's. Doesn't he know friendship is not the same as ownership? "But if you decide not to indulge me..." Tom shrugs, and it is a cruel thing. "Then I'm not sure why I wonder bother keeping him around at all. He's not so easy on the eyes and I know enough about him to know I want to forget him."

Blackmail, Harry tells himself. This is blackmail. "You wouldn't," accuses Harry.

"I don't know, Harry," he says, forever mocking, forever passive-aggressive. "Who do you think I am?"

Like father, like son. He says he is not Voldemort, implies he is not the Tom Riddle Harry knows...

But Harry is only sometimes stupid, and he knows better.

"What," Harry says lowly, and angrily, knowing that he was wrong before. He thought he had nothing, meaning he could throw it away carelessly, acting out of only anger, for what use is his love if there is no one to direct it toward. But Harry does not have nothing. He has Sirius Black, and his love drowns out his anger. He will do what he has to do. "What do you want from me?"

He can almost imagine Sirius' undignified expression. His begs to Harry; telling him not to sell himself to Voldemort -- for Sirius, would, really, call him Voldemort; he's not winning this game of spot the difference, either -- for him to not sacrifice his livelihood for Sirius.

It wouldn't matter, whatever he would say or is saying. Even if Harry would hear it. Sirius Black is his ( father ) godfather and right now, he's all Harry has.

Tom grins. A wide, feral, victorious grin. "Just fill in his former positions," he says, "and we'll go from there."

"Positions," repeats Harry, dryly.

"You're a professor," informs Tom. "And my advisor, part-time."

"I'm not sure I'm qualified."

"What are you? Sixteen?"

"Close," says Harry. "Fifth. And not on course to become a Professor."

"It'll be fine," assures Tom, not even bothered.

"Not sure that'd be allowed."

"When you are President," says Tom, "Harry, anything is allowed."

Harry cannot believe he just said that. Full on. No stuttering. Just flat out, like he believed it and had no reason not to.

Harry blinks once. Then twice. And then, fully accepting the reality of this situation, he says, tone absent, "I hope you get impeached."

"Impeached?" asks Tom, head tilting. "What's that?"

And it's terrifying, Harry thinks, in a way, how such a simple, innocently asked question can strike such fear into him. How something so naive can have such horrid implications.

"Do I," says Harry, "have to be civil toward you?" Because if he does...

Well. Harry will be one step closer to losing his shit, and no amount of sit ups will calm him down.

"Of course not, Harry," says Tom, quickly. Harry hates that. The way Tom feels his name around in his mouth. "I want your feelings, even if they are not kind, considerate, or, god forbid, civil toward me, open, and on display. So that I may react and adapt and understand you accordingly."

"How kind," Harry deadpans.

"I have one condition, though, one last condition."

"Or what? You'll murder my godfather? That seems to be the theme, you know."

Tom laughs a little, but doesn't answer the question, which usually means yes. "It's nothing that abhorrent, I assure you."

"Nothing that abhorrent, or not abhorrent at all?"

"It depends," admits Tom.

"Well, then. Shoot."

"I want," says Tom, sticking his head through the bars, "a kiss."

Harry blinks at him.

Tom stares back.

"What the fuck did you just say?"

"I want a kiss," says Tom. He taps his cheek. "Right here, though, not to worry."

Harry blinks rapidly. "Not... to w...worry?" he repeats slowly.

Tom taps his cheek expectantly. Harry stares at it. And stares. And wonders how this is the most surprising thing he's asked of him.

Harry takes a deep breath, setting his lips gently on Tom's cheek. Then he leans back and swings his fist right where he'd just kissed.

Show my true feelings? thinks Harry, viciously.

Yeah. Yeah, I can do that.

Just watch me.