Harry awoke with a sharp and desperate gasp for air. The loud scream of something dying filled the dark area he was in and made his head ache. The pain was horrible, it felt like he had been run over by a herd of Hippogriffs. It was no Crucio, but it still hurt like a bitch.
The dark haired wizard whimpered pathetically, slowly raising a hand to rub his temple, only to be met with his fingers touching something wet.
What the hell? Thought Harry, was that blood? It was hard to tell in the darkness, the only light provided was that of a thin strip that seemed extremely familiar.
Before he could continue his train of thoughts in trying to figure out what was going on and where he was, a door was abruptly yanked open in front of him. Light streamed into the cramped space, and to his own horror he was met by the face of an angry Petunia Dursley. It shouldn't be possible! His aunt was still alive. He was supposed to see his family again, but not her. He'd gladly have nothing more to do with her ever again, thank you very much.
"Stop that infernal racket, boy!" His aunt screeched as soon as the door opened. Then her eyes fell upon his face and her harping turned into an actual scream of horror. Her hand flew up to cover her mouth, eyes going wide.
Harry, in his own bemused horror at the situation, wondered what it was that she saw. Clearly he was back in his cupboard again, but it was all wrong. The space seemed too large and Petunia too young.
The wetness on his face had seeped down the side of his face and was now dripping onto his chest.
Petunia simply kept staring, at a loss for what to do. But, within a second or two she pulled herself together. She grabbed hold of Harry's shirt and forcefully pulled him up and out of his cupboard, not caring that she slammed his shoulder painfully into the door frame due to her rough treatment.
"Upstairs, quickly!" She hissed. "Get that- that freakishness washed away before Vernon sees it." Her thin lips were pulled so straight that they were almost invisible. Disgust and contempt evident on her face. The feeling was mutual, Harry thought.
On shaky legs, Harry stumbled his way up to the bathroom. Everything felt wrong. The steps of the stairs were too long and the house was too big. He felt like he had walked into a giant version of his miserable childhood residence.
By the time he made it up the stairs and locked the bathroom door, he was breathing heavily. His entire right side hurt, especially his ribs. He wondered if one of them might be fractured, at the very least they were bruised. It could have happened during the final battle he supposed, but that explanation didn't sit right with him either. Ever since he died there had been no actual pain, not like this. And his head? That was in a league of its own.
Harry stepped up to the sink, only to realise that he was too short to turn it on, or to look in the mirror. Luckily there was a step stool in a garishly green colour next to the toilet. It was something he remembered Petunia buying for Dudley when they were younger. It had been there until Dudley at the age of eight exclaimed that he was 'too big for it' and that it was 'a thing for babies'. Not long after, the steps had been thrown out.
He picked up the stool and carried it over to the sink, thankful that it wasn't very heavy. Harry climbed up to take a look in the mirror.
Green eyes widened at the reflection that met him. His face was covered in a black, tar-like sludge intermixed with blood that oozed from his scar. It reminded him of each time he'd destroyed a Horcrux. The scream suddenly made sense. Sort of. It explained the migraine at least.
For some reason the Horcrux in his scar had been destroyed. But that shouldn't have been necessary. He saw the Horcrux get absorbed by Death on the train. He was dead, he shouldn't be in pain. Nor should he be as tiny as he was.
His reflection showed that of a scrawny, malnourished boy, around three or four years of age. Black curls stuck up in every which direction, taking on a life of their own. Some of the locks had matted together due to the Horcrux sludge and clung to the side of his face.
Harry stood frozen in place. This couldn't be happening. He shouldn't look like that. He was seventeen and dead, not three and still living with the Dursleys. His breath caught in his throat and he felt like he couldn't get enough air. Tiny black spots swam in front of his eyes, his breathing shallow and fast.
"Stop dallying and hurry up!" Petunia said in a harsh, clipped voice and rapped on the door. The sudden noise snapped him out of his growing panic attack.
"Y-yes Aunt Petunia." Harry replied breathlessly, falling back into old patterns. Merlin how he hated her.
Quickly he turned on the tap and let the water run freely. He splashed some of it on his face and began to scrub away the grime with a bit of hand soap. The black sludge mixed with blood stood out starkly against the white porcelain. Harry worked on autopilot to clean away the mess on his face as well as that in the sink, trying not to think about the situation. He knew that if he didn't leave the bathroom spotless then he'd be punished for it later. Then again, he'd probably be punished anyway, that was the Dursley method to stomp the magic out of him. No carrot, only stick.
When the water no longer came out murky, he turned off the tap and finally looked at his reflection again. The lightning bolt scar on his forehead was red and irritated around the edges, having split open when the Horcrux was destroyed. It looked fresh, like a cut he'd received only yesterday, not one several years old. Maybe now that the Horcrux was gone it would heal properly and fade. Getting rid of his brand , so to speak, would be lovely. Maybe it would help with blending in a bit more. Being able to walk around in Diagon Alley without people staring at him because of that stupid scar sounded like a dream.
"Hurry up!" Petunia screeched, knocking hard on the locked bathroom door once again.
Harry took a deep breath. "Coming Aunt Petunia!" He replied and quickly made his way out of the bathroom.
His aunt inspected him with a critical eye. She sniffed haughtily, almost annoyed that she couldn't find anything to fault him with. The boy's shirt still had some black stains on it, but they blended in with the rest of the wears and tears of the second-hand garment.
"Well? What are you waiting for? Get to the kitchen." Petunia glared at the little boy and ushered him back downstairs.
Harry was forced to help with making dinner. He didn't know exactly how old he was, but he did know that it wasn't normal to allow a toddler not able to reach the counter on his own, access to knives. Petunia didn't seem to care though. She made him stand on a chair and put a small but sharp knife in his hands.
The horse-faced woman's demands would have been exceedingly difficult for a normal child of Harry's supposed age. Children are not known for their dexterity or attention to detail, so she gave him suspicious looks when he didn't complain or ask for more directions. All the vegetables he cut ended up nearly perfect. Petunia looked like she'd sucked on a lemon.
Harry worked on autopilot. His motor skills were still underdeveloped despite how he knew what needed to be done. This caused him to move slower than he would have preferred so that he could achieve a somewhat acceptable result. Being a child again sucked.
He briefly wondered where Dudley was, but concluded that day-care was the likeliest option, it wasn't as if the Dursleys would pay for Harry to go as well. He was an unwanted freak and a burden after all. So, instead he did chores. Small ones for now. But the boy knew that once he grew older, the number and difficulty of his chores would increase drastically.
The rest of the day continued in the same vein. Harry couldn't shake the thought that this was all some sort of weird hallucination. But just in case it wasn't, he kept up the charade of being an obedient little boy.
Once dinner was finished cooking, the happy family of three settled down at the table, ready to eat the delicious roasted pork shoulder with sides that Harry and Petunia had prepared.
Harry's stomach growled and cramped painfully. He didn't know how long it was since he last ate, but the wonderful aromas wafting over to him made his mouth water. He knew, however, that he shouldn't expect to get any. Growing up he'd been treated worse than a dog.
"Take this and go to your room," Petunia said, handing him a small plate with a slice of stale bread with cheese and a glass of water.
Harry took what he was offered but couldn't help but look at the table wistfully. His uncle glared at him, his colour starting to change from white to puce. It was probably best if he retreated before the man exploded, he'd made an educated guess that the aching ribs in his side were courtesy the fat walrus.
Back in his depressing cupboard once again, Harry slowly ate his meagre meal. It wasn't much but it was better than nothing. He put the plate and glass aside on the floor so he could lay down on the ratty mattress. He closed his eyes and sighed. It had been a torturously long day.
The young wizard still hadn't been able to come to a conclusion as to what was going on at the moment. There were so many possibilities, he thought. He tried to create a mental list of the most likely reasons.
This was hell and he was to be tortured by the Dursleys for eternity. He didn't know what he'd done to deserve anything like that, but it was still possible.
His life as Harry Potter the wizard was the mad ramblings of a desperately lonely and abused child. Possible but unlikely considering the Horcrux incident that afternoon.
Death had sent him back in time to his living three (or four) year old body to act as his anchor to the mortal realm.
The more he thought about it the more option three started to sound like the truth. Hadn't Death said something about him anchoring the deity to the mortal realm so he could explore and alleviate his boredom? At the time, Harry had questioned how he could be an anchor while being dead, now it looked like he might have found his answer. He wasn't going to stay dead.
For hours the wizard laid in his cupboard, questioning everything about his life. He had come to the conclusion that no matter the reason for his return to the living, he would have to come up with a plan. In the past (future?) he'd always rushed in without thinking about the consequences, this time would be different. He would plan and plot. He was going to be better, no, he was going to be great. This time he wouldn't hold back his love of learning just because he was afraid of losing his first friends. The wizarding world was still a mystery to him and he had so much to learn. A spark of excitement and trepidation grew inside of him. This was a second chance.
