11 February 1983
4 Privet Dr, Little Whinging

"Alohamora!"

Neither Jean nor Hermione had ever visited Number 4 Privet Drive in their (previous) life; there had been no need, not when she'd see Harry during the school year or at the Weasley's during the summer. But when Harry did speak of the Dursleys and his home life in muggle London, it was hardly ever in a good light. That was part of the reason she always sent over food whenever he went home or sneak into his luggage before he left.

She'd stock up during the Hogsmeade weekend when everyone else was still packing (the boy's always left it to the last minute) and then whilst they were either down in the common room or still at dinner, she'd stuff the stash into any available space she could find. Robe pockets, shoes, folded socks; nowhere was safe and because she knew that Harry (like most boys) were piss poor in keeping track of their things, he'd never know who had put them there when he eventually did find them.

In any case, even though Jean had never physically stepped foot inside the Dursley's dwelling before, it didn't matter because she'd heard so many tales from the bespectacled boy trapped there, that she could very well picture it in her own mind. Things like "…Colours like peach and salmon pink are distinctly unmagical, and therefore, is much favoured by the likes of Aunt Petunia…" or "…Number 4 Privet Drive is a mirror image of Uncle Vernon's status as a company director; all big and square, but so smugly middle class and so determinedly separate from the wizarding world…" So, either way, life of the party, they were. Not.

Standing in the pastel-painted kitchen, Jean could clearly see what he had meant. The entire placed screamed "muggle!" with its top-of-the-range appliances slipped into every available corner. A certain surgical cleanliness blanketed the room and reminded her, quite a bit, of her parents' dental practise in that regard. From the stink of lemony-fresh cleaner in the air to the neatly arranged appliances which all had a place and were all in place. The adjoining dining room was maybe a pace or two from the kitchen itself and held a sizeable table that was just large enough to seat six people. But, honestly, she was more impressed by the wide-screen television in the corner, where the fireplace had been bricked up.

Breaking into the two-storey home had been laughably easy; just a simple Unlocking Charm on the back door and then she was slipping in through the open gap. Mrs Figg had been notably absent from her yard when Jean had arrived—perhaps it was still too early for old ladies to be up & about—but her clowder had been out in full swing; just sunning themselves on her lawn and peppered along the knee-high brick fence like the Queen's Guard. So, yes, there had been eyes on her as she'd slid down the side gate to the back garden because all cats—both magical & muggle—seemed to have this uncanny ability to see through all illusions. And though breaking into the brick house had been laughably easy, but it was to be the only easy thing about this task.

As "Jean Granger" had yet to exist in this capacity, the brunette could only assume that the Trace would not be able to locate her this far out in muggle London (the Trace was more so for muggleborns, than anyone else, considering children in magical families were barely even written up for such an offence), however that wouldn't last long. Which was why, upon reaching the kitchen, she had switched out the cloak for a vial of dawdle draught and downed the particularly thick orange substance as best she could.

The dawdle draught had been cooked up by some Ministry witch who had been on the Statute of Secrecy Task Force during the time of the Calamity, back in the late 2000s. It was supposed to be quite handy in dealing with the Trace and though Jean had never had to use it before, she had gotten her hands on some just in case. Downing the draught for good luck and with a pained grimace, the muggleborn quickly stoppered the vial and tucked it away before she continued on with her venture.

Creeping through the house, Jean made her way passed the stairs, sparing a glare to the unassuming cupboard that lay under there and just as she was about ascend the stairs, she was stopped by an excitable toddler and his early morning cartoons. "Hey, Jeanie!" Dudley chirped from the couch, both chubby head and sticky hands peering over the back of the couch.

"Jesus!" Jean swore, hand on heart, as she was caught off-guard by the sudden appearance of the toddler. She should've known that Dudley would've been up; she was living with a toddler herself and Merlin knows that boy hardly ever slept in.

Silently praying that neither of the parents would wake to their conversation, Jean turned to the toddler with (what she hoped) was a cheeky grin and a whisper on her lips. "Hi, Dudley!"

"Are you playing hide 'n seek?" Dudley asked, quickly copying the older girl's tone without much hassle. His eyes seemed to shine at the prospect of joining in the game. It was lonely being an only child.

"Um, yeah!" Jean licked her lips, "Don't tell anybody! Shhh!"

Dudley jumped up and down on the couch, making the leather squeak. "I wanna play! I wanna play!"

"Shhhh!" Jean hushed, panicked that he would wake his parents before she could even do what she wanted to. "I'm—we're trying to play hide 'n seek, remember?"

It was then that Dudley seemed to note her uniform. "And I want cookies!"

C'me on! Jean silently cursed herself. "If I give you a cookie, will you be quiet?"

Dudley seemed to consider it before he retorted, "I want two!"

Damn this spoilt brat! Jean groused, "I'll give you one AND I'll let you play hide 'n seek with me!"

Dudley pouted before giving in. Apparently the prospect of no cookie at all was far more horrifying. "…Okaaaaaaay"

Heaving a sigh of relief, Jean delved into her little beaded bag (much to the glee of Dudley) and pulled out a cookie from the box of thin mints that she had been snacking on throughout her march from Caterham to Little Whinging. The spoilt boy greedily snatched it from her hands and immediately began to stuff it into his mouth, mindless of the chocolate coating that smeared everywhere or the fact he could very well choke on the cookie, with the way he had all but inhaled it.

"Whaddya say?" Jean prompted, more on habit than trying to instil manners into the boy.

"F'anx Jeanie!" Dudley garbled around his mouthful. Apparently he was learning some things in that high society kindergarten of his.

With the boy occupied with cookie, Jean quietly fished out the wand again. Offering a quiet, "Sorry" to the boy, she pointed it in his face.

"Hey, vatcha doin?" Dudley garbled, confusion clearly visible on his little face. Not that she could blame him; as far as the toddler was concerned (thanks to his mother's endless comments) anything related to magic was horrible and forbidden. Which, then again, means nothing to a curious toddler, only that Mummy doesn't like it.

"Stupefy!"

No sooner did the spell leave her lips, did Dudley collapse against the couch and Jean had to quickly rush forward to catch him before he hit the ground. He wasn't exactly a light child and she had a bit of trouble manoeuvring him around until he was more or less back in place on the couch. See, the reason she'd not bothered so much with tampering with his memories was three fold: one, she'd rather not imprint on the boy that magic was as bad as his mother made it out to be, henceforth enforcing that terrible behaviour he had been known for in her timeline.

Two, when she went to tamper with his parents' memories, she couldn't very well have him interfering or kicking up a fuss that brought over the neighbours or—Morgana-forbid—Dumbledore. And three, the average person didn't remember anything before the age of four, but just to be sure, Jean pulled the memory of her arrival & interaction at the Dursley home from the boy's mind and then set him back in front of the television, with the blanket over his legs. Staged as if he'd just fallen asleep watching the early morning cartoons. His parents, she knew, would not be so easy.

Standing over the two stupefied parents, Jean found herself warring with the idea of just leaving them there, turning them into vegetables like she'd (accidentally) done with her own parents, previously, or actually coming to do what she had planned. She couldn't rightly argue that the Dursleys were any better or worse than they had been in her timeline, but standing over them as she was and practically holding their fates in her hands she felt powerful. And there was this little voice in the back of her head whispering "What if?"

What if she turned their brains to mush? What if she made certain that Harry would never end up in a place like this? What if she took out a collection of important players in this game with no one the wiser? What if she implanted a little more "evidence" than what she knew? What if? What if? What if? "No, shut up! You know what you need to do" Jean clapped her cheeks a couple of times, shaking herself from those ever-so-tempting thoughts. "Petunia & Dudley go to the Evans' and Vernon gets arrested. Split them up and make sure that Harry can never end up here"

Taking a deep breath to settle her emotions, she doublechecked that no alarms had been raised or pulled any nosy neighbours towards the home and when she found none, Jean turned to the next phase of her plan. It was, admittedly, the most difficult part of her plan: to fabricate several memories of abuse throughout Petunia & Vernon's long, long relationship; whilst still keeping Petunia's self-preserving nature in tact. Starting with the wife, she implanted a few suggestions that had her play the victim to her husband, though she would do her best to cover it up.

According to her, Vernon had always been a little forceful and, only when intoxicated, was he heavy-handed. It was fine when they were younger; it didn't come up as often and she could it off, but when they moved in together and had a child, it only got worse. Hidden behind closed doors, the abuse had increased and Petunia had forced to become more of a stay-at-home mother than continue to pursue her career in the clerical business. She, like most Evans women, was a strong working woman afterall and to admit such things were going on, would have of been shameful. But tonight, it had come to a head when Vernon had turned his attentions to Dudley and she had placed herself between them.

As for Vernon, she made sure that his thoughts were incoherent enough that his mind would be able to fill in the blanks as suggested by the scene she would later set up for him; one of a drunken night in where his wife had been nitpicking his every move. One where he had drunken just a little too much and things had gotten a little too boisterous. Unfortunately—or fortunately, depending on how you looked at it—Jean didn't have to add too many suggestions because a lot of those thoughts were already swimming around in his brain. Anything else—any other gaps in his memory—would be filled in on its own over the next few days as he tried to piece together the "black-out" night that he had had.

The mind was a wonderful thing, easily blanking out traumatic experiences or completely making up something that wasn't even there. Jean had modified memories before—wandlessly too—but usually those memories were usually either resets or clean wipes, they certainly weren't scattered moments that were years old. Those rare times that she had had to complete such a task were few and far between. It took time to do, but it was a task that was made infinitely easier with a wand in hand and she knew that it would be worth it, in the end.

Once done, she moved on to setting up the scene. For Petunia, this meant placing a diary that she'd spent months fabricating, on the bedside dresser. The pages were absolutely filled to the brim with immaculately fraudulent scrawl, a picture perfect rendition of Petunia's handwriting that depicted the Petunia-Vernon love story; with a minimum of three hundred entries. It started with the fairytale early days, the ones filled with the teenage puppy love—those were crucial. Petunia & Vernon had to be likeable, if they were ever such a thing, at least to the reader—After that, it was invention. The spending, the abuse, the fear, the shame and the threat of violence. Unable to leave, unable to stay and not all of it as untrue as she would've liked (according to Harry).

Sat neatly on the dresser, the plain-looking notebook was placed in clear view; somewhere where Petunia would naturally leave and somewhere where the cops could find it—they had to find it. Once all was said and done, once the Dursleys were split and thoroughly confounded, Jean would lock up the house, trot down to the nearest telephone booth and phone in a "domestic disturbance" coming from No. 4 Privet Dr. And if everything wen to plan, then Vernon Dursley would get arrested for harming his beautiful wife, endangering his sweet child and Harry would never end up in the custody of either Dursley, ever again.

Moving from the bedroom, Jean set about packing an "escape bag" for the mother and son—something that contained only the essentials and a change of clothes, all haphazardly thrown in together as if Petunia had packed in a hurry—before she returned to the bedroom to move Petunia downstairs to be with her son. Next up was staging Vernon. For him, she simply made sure that his knuckles and other appendages were bruised or cut enough (courtesy of a Stinging Jinx and a mild Severing Charm), that he was in enough of a disarray that he would believe he had just passed out from a heavy night of drinking: furniture toppled, clothes strewn about, curtains half-assed and faucets running; the works.

Downstairs, she sat perched on the edge of the coffee table (her mother's voice in her mind scolding her for doing so) and cast both Rennervate and Confundus Charms in quick succession. Thankfully, it didn't take long to rouse Petunia who, whilst thoroughly confused, agreed to sign the documents set out before her. The ones Jean presented her with included both guardianship and divorce documents, alongside a letter of resignation for her clerical job that would be filed at a later date, once Jean had sorted through everything else. No sooner had the final line been signed, did Jean reapply the Stupefy on the woman, before adding a rather vindictive Stinging Jinx which would disfigure her enough to make the abuse allegation eligible. No one in their right mind would dare deny those stinging red brands that marred her skin, nor the swelling which cinched one eye shut thanks to the burgeoning black eye that encompassed it.

11 February 1983
Penshaw Grove, Cokeworth

Hard part done, Jean hauled out a warped tin camping plate and tapped it with the tip of her wand. Placing both mother & son's hands on it along with her own; a moment later and the portkey activated, taking the trio to Penshaw Grove, Cokeworth. Thankfully, Jean where the Evans' childhood home was located as they had attended a Christmas dinner there only a month or so prior, meaning she knew exactly where to drop the unsuspecting two off.

In the alley adjacent to the bus stop, she rennervated Petunia & Dudley, before setting the pair on the course for the two-storey townhouse. Petunia, with memories modified and face disfigured, ran crying towards her childhood home; Dudley on one arm and the escape bag on the other. Jean watched from the shadows as the woman banged loudly on the front door until she was let in by her mother, wailing in distress about what Vernon had done.

With a pleased smirk on her lips, Jean turned from the scene and returned, via portkey, to the Dursley residence. Now that Petunia & Dudley were sorted, it was back to Surrey to finish off what she had started.

11 February 1983
Number 4 Privet Dr, Little Whinging

Returning via portkey, Jean reappeared in the Dursley home and quickly set about staging the home for the soon-to-be-reported "domestic disturbance" Furniture toppled, photo frames either thrown or skewered, holes in the walls and numerous bottles of booze either poured down the sink, littered about the countertop or just plain smashed up against the walls. Jean had to admit, it was almost therapeutic, just causing absolute fucking mayhem. Especially, since she wasn't the one who would have to clean it up.

It was late that morning before Jean eventually left the Dursley residence for the final time—making sure to lock the backdoor on her way out—leaving Vernon to sleep off his "hangover" and to call in the domestic disturbance to the local police station. She'd check later (if she remember or could even be bothered) to see if things had gone as well as she'd hoped. For now, all she could do was slip back into her Girl Guides persona as she made her way to Hampstead.

That was the Dursleys done, now it was time for the Grangers.