London was an ancient and unchanging creature, made up of elegant buildings and streets that smelled painfully of dirt no matter the decade. Even taking this into account, Harry Potter still finds it strange to see the city standing again. Where she comes from, there's nothing left but rubble and bodies decomposing in the open air.
The girl with a lightning bolt scar on her forehead is positively out of place among the other pedestrians who pass by. She's a scrawny teenager with dirty hair tied out of her face, shabby clothes, and glasses that are nothing but a pile of cheap plastic and glass, held in place only by a spell.
With agility, Potter crosses the public walkway and ignores the suspicious glances she receives, even wearing the attire she transfigured to make her mix up with the crowds. In the end, no matter how hard Harriet tries, she can't summon the energy required to care about the Muggle's opinions. However, the presence of all these people is disorienting. The girl is so exhausted and nervous that the world around her begins to fade, shadows stretching unnaturally, whispers making her fight the urge to cover her ears. Potter stops walking and attempt to situate herself in the present reality. You are no longer in a war, she repeats to herself. Everything will be different this time.
Almost instinctively, Harry brings her fingertips to the cracked hourglass of the time-turner that hangs on a thin necklace around her neck. The object is warm to the touch and weighs like an anchor. It was insane even consider that the plan with a touch of ''Terminator'' would have a good result. Harry only hopes that no Pureblooded Kyle Reese appears wanting to protect the genocidal offspring of Merope Gaunt. She knows that this won't happen. Draco's grandfather time-turner was unique. He assured them of it.
The Malfoy family's very illegal instrument was the last resort, only considered when the options became to die, or, well, die.
The thought that she had a relic and caution from Abraxas Malfoy, in case some misfortune happened to his precious bloodline hidden under her blouse, almost made her laugh. Well, a disaster had happened, but Harriet didn't consider herself the best person to deal with it. The truth is, she was tired. Potter couldn't remember what it was like to sleep through the night or eat a hot meal. She could not recall an occasion when she wasn't fighting tooth and nail for the simplest things, like the right to keep breathing, for example.
Voldemort had made her Undesirable Number One, and that endless war broke her spirit. Even the tiniest noises had the girl clutching her wand between her fingers and bracing herself as if a battle was about to break out before her eyes. So no, Harriet Potter didn't feel like a hero, like the Girl-Who-Lived. She was just an angry soul, but there was no one left. They were all dead, and Voldemort was her burden to carry. In the end, she always had to face him alone.
Like it or not, they were both prophesied. Mirrors. Equals. Inevitable.
Harry never thought it was possible to hate a single person so much.
Where she comes from, the Second Wizarding War has lasted three years and has spread to the Non-Magical world, leaving Britain destroyed. It was Voldemort's obsession with getting his hands on Harry when he found out in The Battle of the Department of Mysteries that she was one of his Horcruxes, and the girl's refusal to surrender that unleashed that hell on earth. The Dark Lord had unorthodox plans for the only surviving Potter, and she didn't want to take any chances. Her yielding wouldn't bring peace. Voldemort was too insane for that.
Just a few hours earlier, Draco, Hermione, Neville, and Harry had stolen the time-turner Lucius Malfoy had inherited from his father, leaving the family Mansion unrecoverable in the process. Hermione and Draco died taking them out, and Neville held the Death Eater Squad while Harriet tried to send them to 1920, where they would find and execute Merope Gaunt before she had a chance to spawn the equivalent of the antichrist in the Wizarding world.
It wasn't in Potter's plans to be hit by an errant spell and end up alone in 1947.
The thought that Neville probably died horribly also puts her on the brink of a nervous breakdown, and Harry counts to ten, mentally thinking that none of those deaths will actually happen. She will change things. She needs to.
The girl breathes in and out until she's calmer, her button-down shirt and pleated skirt aren't enough to protect her from the London weather, but the exhausting numbness that has gripped her limbs is so immense that the icy wind doesn't bother anymore.
At least her feet aren't cold.
Leaving her stupor behind him, Harry mumbles an answer and moves out of the way. The fewer people she interacts with, the better. Killing Merope Gaunt would be a lot easier than killing Tom Riddle, but Potter never had anything easy in her life.
Her best shot is to use the surprise element. She will destroy the bastard's body and then hunt down his Horcruxes while he is in that incorporeal state, unable to stop her, just like her first year at Hogwarts, where he was a despicable parasite on the back of Professor Quirrell's head.
Seeing Diagon Alley again almost brings Harry to her knees. There are dozens of people chatting as they walk, going about their respective routines. Potter is no longer used to seeing so many Wizards alive. And this is the worst possible time for a panic attack. When she feels she can move without a flare-up, she makes her way to Knockturn Alley.
True to its purpose, the street is darker and gloomier than the others, but it's been a long time since Potter felt afraid of the dark. Now she knows better. Today she understands that the dangerous monsters don't need to hide.
Borgin & Burkes is an ordinary shop like any other, only with a slightly more worn and grimy front than its neighbors. The girl stops at the curb, pressing her wand into her sweaty palm harder than required. Her heart beats like lightning on her chest. There are at least a million things that could go wrong. The memories she has of what Dumbledore told her about Riddle's life may be wrong. Riddle may have taken the day off, etc. But she came from too far away, lost too much to go back now.
The girl's legs move of their own accord. The bell above the door rings as Harry steps inside the shop, and Tom Riddle, leaning casually behind the counter, lifts his head to look at her.
It takes her a long second to recognize him. He doesn't look like the arrogant, cruel boy from the chamber of secrets, nor does he resemble the man who did an interview at Hogwarts for the DADA teacher position, where his face had started to get distorted, like a wax mask that was slowly melting.
The boy behind the counter has the face of a fallen angel. There is no better way to describe him.
His features are impeccable, and the chiseled jaw accentuates the harmonious proportions of a face whose beauty is surreal and incomparable. Potter feels a piece of her own soul, of his soul, stirring in recognition, and the air around Riddle glows and bends in response, trying to reach it even if unconsciously. But despite the feeling of familiarity, Harry is not fooled by the superficial charm of Riddle's appearance.
She has been in that man's head, intimately knows the monster dwelling beneath that lovely face. He's already the kind of person who tricks little girls into releasing beasts in a school full of children.
Harriet watched, with horrified fascination, as he straightened his posture as if he could somehow sense what she was. Potter hated the fact that she had become aware of the Horcrux ever since Dumbledore had called her into his office, at the end of that terrible fifth year, to tell her about it. The worst part was that, after 19 years with that piece of Voldemort's soul intensely curled in her chest, she didn't feel like letting it go.
Curiosity emanated from Tom Riddle in waves as he opened an inviting smile.
''Welcome to Borgin & Burkes. How can I help you? ''. Even his voice is soft, careful. A very well-created and established persona, but despite everything, his eyes cannot lie.
The dark brown of his irises sparkled reddish mahogany if you looked closely. The monster finally shows its face. Despite the expression of innocence and neutrality Riddle insisted on wearing, Potter was aware that if she turned her back now, this handsome boy would turn into a genocide.
'' Miss, is everything alright? Have you been attacked? Do you want me to call the Aurors? ''. Riddle persists with what appears to be a genuine concern, finally noticing the girl's dirty and desolate face. This time, Harry can't contain her laughter.
Hysterical giggling erupts in her throat, bubbling all the way up, tears stream down her squalid cheeks, and she knows she must look downright crazy, but it doesn't matter. Potter looks at him and can only see the bodies of her friends, those who decided to protect her and ended up torn apart. Voldemort took everything from Harry, so the girl is at peace when she raises her wand with a spell already slipping from her tongue.
— Avada Kedavra.