Well...I figured that you might want to know where I'm going with this story. The summary wasn't exactly very informative, was it? In any case, this chapter isn't much bigger than the last but the next should be larger.

Now, dear readers, I'll be asking the same of you as I do in my other stories: Please drop a note and let me know what you think. Please also point out grammatical errors and whatnot when you can. I do proofread but that doesn't catch everything!

EDIT 04/03/16: I've made a few adjustments here in light of future events that I have planned.

Chapter 2: Thirty Going on Fourteen

He was floating through endless darkness and bitter cold. Sirius had told him it was like falling asleep and he'd fallen through this very veil. So why the bloody hell was it so cold? Why did it feel like needles were piercing every single pore of his body? If this was dying, Harry wanted back to when he was seventeen and hit with Avada Kedavra. At least that was quick, painless, and to the point.

Whispers floated through his surroundings but try as he might, he couldn't understand a single word. This both frustrated and relieved him.

Why couldn't he die? He was tired. He was so tired of fighting, of living, and of simply being. He wanted to see his friends. He wanted to see his family. He wanted to see Dumbledore and throttle him and scream that all his plans had gone to hell in a hand basket and that Voldemort was back and that England was in ruins because he'd missed something. He wanted to see Severus Snape and hug him and annoy him with his friendship.

He just wanted some peace!

No sooner had he thought this did he hear a whistling. Then the piercing stopped but was followed by what felt like wind pushing him up. What was first a small breeze turned into a billowing gust that sent him hurtling through the blackness and into a bright flash of white light and once again into soft darkness that was not blinding.

Harry slammed into something that seemed to jerk all his limbs. For a moment, his head burst into familiar flames right where his lightning bolt scar was before it went out. As the pain disappeared, his lungs started working and he inhaled sharply in a gasp. Eyes snapping open, Harry rolled to the side, only to find that he was not on the floor but rather rolling off of something.

Reflexes kicking in, he let his arms loosely take his weight before he shifted and jumped up, reaching for his wand only to find that it was nowhere on his person or even in sight. Blinking, Harry absorbed his queer, familiar, and completely unexpected surroundings.

A large wooden trunk stood open at the foot of the bed, holding a cauldron, broomstick, black robes, and books that he hadn't seen in years since graduating from Hogwarts. There was a derelict desk set up by the wall that was filled with rolls of parchment; also on the desk was perched an empty owl cage.

Harry's eyes drifted back to his bed and he stooped to pick up an open book lying by it. It was Flying with the Cannons, a book he hadn't had the joy of reading in years. He took the moment to peruse the well-loved pages before closing it and placing it on his bedside table. Then, with all the purpose of a battle-hardened veteran, Harry swept aside the curtains covering the window to find himself staring out at Privet Drive.

"What the bloody hell?" Harry muttered, still scanning his surroundings. From what he could see, he was back at Number Four Privet Drive. Back in the bedroom he'd left behind when he was still sixteen. The bedroom that he'd never seen since Privet Drive and the rest of the Muggle town he was currently in had been razed to the ground courtesy of a power hungry Lord Voldemort.

His voice made him stop short. It was younger than what he'd expected. Suspicious, Harry opened the wardrobe door and used the mirror on the inside. Its reflection showed him clearly what he'd begun to suspect but had hoped wasn't true: he was a teenager again; scrawny, still slightly shorter than average, and with a shock of black hair that still hadn't gained its premature gray streaks. His face was unmarred except for the round glasses perched on his nose and the lightning bolt scar half-hidden under his fringe.

And his arms were nothing but unmarked skin. Even his hands were normal…

He looked down at them, flexing them wonderingly. The jagged white lines that had become normal were no longer there, and he could easily use his hands. There were no traces of numbness or muscle twitches, and there was no scar on the back of his hand that read I must not tell lies.

Snapping his head around, Harry looked for the calendar that he always had by his bedside. Sure enough, the date was now August of 1994. Weakly, Harry sank down on the deflated mattress that served as his bed. It was far more comfortable than what he had become used to during the final years of the war-ridden world he had just left.

What in bloody hell had happened? He'd hit Voldemort with a curse that destroyed his chest and then thrown both of them through the veil in the Department of Mysteries. But instead of dying like Sirius had or anyone else who was thrown through it, he'd come back in time?

Breathing in deeply, Harry searched mentally for any spells or other residue that would make it possible that he was hallucinating. When he came back empty, he had to admit that for better or for worse, he was now physically fourteen years old and with the Trace still on him.

Mouth twitching into what could be called a smile, Harry fetched his wand from his trunk and gave it a little twirl over his head, twisting his magical signature as he did. He felt the foreign obstruction of the Trace disappear and broadened his smile; he was now able to perform magic without the blasted Ministry observing his every move.

Using this opportunity, Harry Transfigured his bed into something much more comfortable and resembling that of his four-poster bed in Gryffindor tower. Then, thoughtfully fingering his wand, he repaired the desk and the miserable looking chair accompanying it. As he did so, he took note of several birthday cards propped on the bedside table. The sight made him take a seat on his newly repaired chair and think about his options now that he was, for some indiscernible reason, once again fourteen years old.

At fourteen, he had the unfortunate luck of seeing his name being placed in the Goblet of Fire. He had had to face a dragon, mermaids, and Voldemort himself. Then he'd had the terribly unfortunate luck of being accosted by a Death Eater in disguise. That was easily remembered. But what else was he forgetting?

The Quidditch World Cup for one thing. His eyes darkened as he remembered that terrible night. He would be getting an invitation soon, which meant seeing the Weasleys…and Ron.

The very thought of seeing his best friend again made Harry's heart ache. It had been a year since his best friend had been brutally murdered by Death Eaters when trying to escape a library. Ron had always joked that libraries would be the death of him, but they'd never considered that it could actually happen.

The fact was that Ron had been in the library because Hermione had been killed two years earlier while trying to help Muggle-born witches and wizards escape from one of Voldemort's cruel prisons. He'd been researching a possible way for Harry to defeat Voldemort.

Harry was resolved that it wouldn't happen again. No one else was going to die because of his stupidity this time. This time…Voldemort wouldn't have the slightest chance in hell of getting his hands on that wand.

Thinking of the wand made Harry think of Dumbledore and that drew his thoughts to the infamous blood wards surrounding Privet Drive. They were only supposed to work as long as he thought of this place as home but he hadn't thought of this place as home since leaving it that first time and even before that Hogwarts had been considered home. What did that mean for the blood wards now that he was mentally thirty years old and sitting in his old bedroom?

They were probably null and void.

To confirm his thoughts, Harry once again reached out with his mental senses and searched for anything resembling the powerful wards Albus Dumbledore had erected. When he could sense nothing, he realized that Privet Drive would no longer be a safe "haven" for him.

That brought up a new problem of where he would be going now that this house was no longer a safe "haven" for him. Where else could he go? He'd become an expert at wards since Bill Weasley had taught him everything he knew before his death at the hands of an undead Fenrir Greyback. Perhaps he could concoct something that would keep this house safe from Death Eaters and Voldemort himself. Even in the future that now longer was, Voldemort had never been able to get past Harry's wards.

He wasn't called Voldemort's equal for nothing. But while fighting insane dark wizards didn't make him nervous, facing his best friend's family after having thought of them as dead for years did.

What was he going to do?

After being rudely awakened by his very obese uncle following the little sleep he'd managed to garner, Harry was seriously reconsidering his decision on staying with his beloved family any longer than necessary. But since he did have a wand and knew how to use it, he figured he could come to an agreement of sorts with his loving relatives.

As Harry sat down at the breakfast table, somehow managing to squeeze himself besides his whale of a cousin, who was taking up two whole chairs, he stared in disbelief at the spread…which consisted of grapefruit.

Crap, he'd forgotten about this.

Petunia Dursley placed a miserable quarter of grapefruit on Harry's plate. Glancing to the side, Harry noted that Dudley's portion was bigger than his own, though the diet was for Dudley's benefit.

Considering his scrawny size and the fact that he could do magic now, Harry figured that this really wouldn't do at all. The cakes under the floorboard in his room weren't exactly healthy for a growing boy.

Hiding a wicked grin, Harry cheerfully pushed his grapefruit quarter over to his morbidly obese blonde cousin and stood up to go to the fridge and check for something more suitable for a growing teenager who was also underweight.

Vernon Dursley, equally obese as his son, glared at Harry out of beady little eyes. "Boy," he growled, "what do you think you're doing?"

"Getting myself something decent to eat." Harry fetched a carton of eggs, milk, and cheese, thankful that they didn't just have fruits and vegetables in the house. "I'm not the one who needs to lose a stone or two."

There was a loud clatter as Vernon angrily overturned his chair. "You will eat what Petunia puts on your plate, boy, and nothing else. You're lucky that we already feed you what we do!"

Harry calmly turned around, coolly meeting Vernon's eyes. "Oh, yes, Vernon. Starving your nephew and giving him less than what his overweight cousin eats is certainly called 'feeding.' I'm not the one who needs to lose a stone or even two. In case you haven't noticed, I'm wearing your son's clothing, which is far too big and ragged."

Vernon purpled dangerously, a vein throbbing in his temple. "Boy…" He took a menacing step towards Harry but was stopped in his tracks as a holly wand pointed directly at his chest. The large man swallowed, suddenly extremely nervous. "Y-you can't use that freakish stuff outside of school. You'll be expelled!"

"Will I?" Harry said nonchalantly, cocking his head to the side. "I think you'll find that things have changed, Vernon, since yesterday. I'm perfectly able to use magic"—he relished the flinch Vernon gave at the word—"outside of school now." Not taking his eyes off his uncle, Harry gave his wand a flick and began making a plate of eggs. "If I really wanted to, I could bind you to your chair right now and not think anymore of it."

Neither Petunia nor Dudley had moved from their chairs since Harry had taken out his wand. Both of them were ashen; Petunia's tea lay neglected on the table while Dudley had stopped gulping down what remained of Harry's grapefruit.

"So what will it be, Uncle?" Harry asked softly, his green eyes not leaving his uncle's. "Will you sit down peacefully or make me bind you?"

Vernon didn't take long to make his decision, although it probably helped that Harry kept his wand pointed at him the entire time. With that taken care of, Harry turned his attention to making his breakfast, though half an eye was still kept on his relatives to make sure that nothing else would happen.

By the time his eggs were finished, there was the sound of the doorbell. Harry shoveled his eggs onto a plate, raising an eyebrow at the purpling Vernon.

"That had better not be a bloody salesman," Vernon muttered thunderously, pushing his chair out to go and answer the door.

Harry promptly took the vacated chair and began eating, levitating the rest of the grapefruit that was on the kitchen counter over to his plate with a flick of his fingers. He needed more sustenance than just the eggs, although he'd have to see about getting some sort of nutrition potion to make up for the malnutrition of the previous years.

Within two minutes, Vernon came stomping back into the kitchen. He once again purpled upon seeing Harry sitting in his chair but didn't say anything as the wand lay in plain view on the table with Harry's right hand resting by it. Instead, he threw an opened envelope on the table.

"It's for you," he grunted.

Putting his fork down, Harry inspected the envelope, a grin tugging at his lips as he recognized the envelope as one Molly Weasley had sent to invite him to the Quidditch World Cup. It was covered with stamps and the address was squeezed in the middle.

"Well, she certainly put on enough stamps," Harry said cheerfully, taking the letter out and reading it through. It contained nothing he wasn't already aware of, although it did refresh his memory as to what would happen next. "They'll be here by five tomorrow. You might want to take the boards off the fireplace; they're going to be Flooing here."

"Flooing?"

"It's transportation by fire," Harry explained, eating the last of his grapefruit and ignoring the flinches the Dursleys gave at his tactless description. He levitated his plates into the kitchen sink and stood up, taking the letter as he did. "I'll be up in my room."

When he opened the door to his room, Harry instantly found himself ducking as a small ball of feathers accosted him. Snatching the tiny owl out of the air with the skill of a Seeker, Harry made sure to relieve Pigwidgeon, better known as Pig, of his burden. "I would assume that you've already made yourself at home, Pig."

Pig gave several excited hoots and began flying in excited circles again. He was eyed disgustedly by Hedwig, Harry's snowy white owl.

Harry smiled fondly at her, not having seen her since her death that fateful night so many years ago…or three years in the future if he wanted to be technical. He stroked her feathers lovingly, earning him a curious eye from his familiar. "I've missed you, Hedwig. I know it's only been a day since you last saw me, but for me it's been years and years. You were my only owl, you know."

Hedwig gave him an affectionate nip on the finger before returning to her previous occupation: eyeing Pig with all the disgust that a mature owl could dredge up.

"He is hyperactive, isn't he?" Harry asked, chuckling. He opened the letter Pig had brought and read it through swiftly. Since it said exactly the same thing it had said last time, he jotted off a quick reply and gave it to Pig, who was so excited that Harry had trouble fastening the letter to his leg. "Hold still, you blasted bird…" Within half a minute, Harry had managed to fasten the letter and Pig gave one last excited hoot before bolting out the window. Harry gave the disappearing fleck in the sky an amused look before turning his attention to his trunk.

"We'll be off to the Weasleys tomorrow," Harry informed Hedwig, flicking his wand and unpacking the entire trunk.

He Vanished old and moldy parchment papers, candy wrappers, and a couple of bad socks that were so smelly he couldn't even consider wearing them. A particularly knobby pair that he had been using for a Sneakoscope was Vanished so quickly Harry didn't even blink. When that was done, he sorted through the old school robes he had outgrown and packed them into the wardrobe. His old spell books went into a corner of the room, where he promptly placed a powerful Notice-Me-Not Charm on them to ensure that no one would find them.

When his trunk was entirely cleaned out, Harry began packing everything into it – very neatly as he now appreciated the value of nice clothes and good cauldrons. He handled his Firebolt – a gift from his godfather – very carefully before placing it on top of everything else. The Cloak of Invisibility he considered for a moment before placing it on his bed; he then shut the trunk and picked his father's cloak up.

Here was one of the Deathly Hallows. It was the only one he had kept following the battle in his seventh year. He'd left it behind before Severus and he had gone to the Department of Mysteries. He already knew several spells of invisibility, although none were as powerful as the cloak was now that he knew how to fully utilize its power. Not even Alastor Moody's magical eye would be able to see through its material if Harry had it on.

Brushing his fingers along the runes sown into the silky material, Harry drew it around him, molding the magic so that just the cloak was invisible but not himself. It would be handy in a fight. Although still a Gryffindor at heart, he was by now more Slytherin in nature and was fully aware of the value of retreating if a fight was lost.

He'd saved many lives with that mindset, although it hadn't helped in the last years as the casualties had racked up.

Eyes momentarily darkening, Harry had to shake himself and push those memories behind strong shields. Following Voldemort's second return, he'd finally learned Occlumency from Severus and Legilimency to boot. Although nowhere near as proficient as Severus in Occlumency, Harry knew enough to block out Voldemort's general probes and how to close his mental connection off so as not to receive any visions.

With this thought in mind, Harry lay down on the bed and closed his eyes. He had some planning to do.