I wake up and realize I'm in the right damn place.
There, above me, is that blasted off-white ceiling that I'd grown to hate over six summers. Petunia called it Navajo White. I knew the colour by heart because I had to re-paint it every summer before I left. The walls too. Something about covering up the freakishness in the room as I recall. Vernon had a belt for when I dripped paint on the floor. They also made sure I didn't have any newspaper, either.
I glance at the calendar on the wall; July 18th, 1991.
This isn't right. I'm supposed to be in a cupboard under the stairs, not the second bedroom.
I swear under my breath as I sit up, realising at once something else is wrong. Certainly I feel small, but at ten years old? That, and fitting clothes? I need a mirror. A wave of my hand, and… well.
Fuck.
Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.
I am no longer the Boy-Who-Lived.
Messy black hair, emerald green eyes, and an angry red lightning bolt scar are still there, but all the other features are softer, more feminine. A quick check of my clothing, and I'm wearing white cotton knickers, and… and… fuck!
Fuck you fate.
I suppose having hope was too much to ask for.
I check my Occlumency, dig and root around for a minute or two. There's a small little thing of pain and misery that's retreated so far into itself I wonder if I'll ever be able to dig it out. As well as that wonderful little splotch of hatred and nastiness. I trace it out, feeling the broken shards of a human soul floating on top of my psyche. It's definitely still a piece of a Dark Lord.
I had a master plan when stepping back in time; plans within plans, contingencies and backups, the whole nine yards. I thought I'd embraced my Slytherin side. Nope. Potter needs to bend over and take it up the ass.
Again!
I check the wards on the property. They're already starting to fade. That part I at least got right. Not my problem. I need them for one last ditch effort, and then I won't need them ever again. The piece of the Dark Lord in my head needs to go.
Fact: Dumbledore's an asshole. He probably knew about this way out. He'd researched Horcruxes quite a bit, but withheld it all "for the greater good." Maybe he wanted the glory all to himself, maybe he thought it'd be best if I was just a good little martyr, dying for the Wizarding World rather than living in the corrupt cesspit he knew it had become.
Which is understandable really.
I feel that strange and broken piece of a twisted human soul start to squirm as I begin squeezing it. It lashes out. It knows who I am, or at least thinks it does, so it attacks with memories that should revolt me. Cruciating someone's brains into oatmeal, watching Death Eaters gang rape a seven-year old girl, all the usual revolting horror that's supposed to break a little girl.
It doesn't. Instead there's no reaction from that little ball of misery.
I fire back with the last thing Voldemort expects, given my history; the birth of my son. The damn thing nearly screams in pain, and my scar opens up, thick, black, blood leaking down my face. I tear apart the little bastard, keeping the ability to speak Parseltongue in the process. His memories and experiences fall apart and leak out my face, while a whole host of magic pours through me.
I check that little ball again. Nothing.
Maybe this is why Albus didn't want me doing it this way. I can feel the Dark Lord's magic being torn apart and assimilated by my soul. Not just the Parseltongue, but his actual magic. How much he has is… terrifying.
I didn't hold a candle to him before this. Now?
Christ.
Either way, I drop a cooling charm on myself, shivering as I prepare to cast the spell that'll free me of all of Dumbledore's tracking, including the health monitor that'd tell him just how much misery and pain Jessica has undergone. Much like the wards on the house, they're bound to blood. My blood. Not Lily's. Mine. There's a long, involved, and relatively painless process to free me of Dumbledore's tracking, but I don't have time for it. Instead, I use the quick and extraordinarily painful one. There's a specific blood-boiling curse that causes all of your blood to boil.
Including the stuff that's outsideyour body.
Oh, it hurts. It's not the Cruciatus, but my blood is literally trying to boil in my veins. I hold it for ten seconds, then let it go, collapsing to the floor as that little ball inside my head tightens just that little bit more.
"It's okay," I say, partially to myself, partially to the little girl trapped in her own head. "We're done. And we're leaving."
There's no response. I wasn't expecting one. After all, who in their right mind would trust me?