Extended Summary:

It's summer now, just weeks after Voldemort's demise- or downfall or whatever pleases you to call it. Sure Hermione and Ron are alive, and yet so many more have died. The Weasley family was just Ron, George, and Molly now. Maybe it's selfish for Harry to focus on the small picture at a time like this, but he can't help but feel it was all a bit anti-climactic.

What's really changed? What did those students die for? What did Remus and Sirius die for? What did he die for, and come back for? Their Wizarding population is reeling from having been cut into less than half; meanwhile another fanatic madman recruits muggleborn survivors to kill the rest. What have they really achieved?

After a night of typical teen revelry, Harry wakes up with a hangover and a choice. Maybe he would've chose differently if his head wasn't killing him but it's too late now- it's 1974 and he's a pipsqueak again. The Knights of Walpurgis are making waves in the political arena... while in the shadows, a mysterious character that goes by the name Lord Voldemort is seeding revolution.

Warning: Rating may change to Explicit depending on how comfortable the author is with depicting certain future plot points.

Seventeen was never easy... but fourteen was so much worse the second time around.

Now the question would typically be 'how can one be fourteen, if you've already been seventeen?' Because as most people would agree, time was linear and it ran forwards. Never looking back.

Not true! Time doesn't even necessarily exist. Everything ever, anything anywhere, is happening simultaneously... and also completely irrelevant.

But- for the sake of this tale in particular- it must be noted that there are wizards and witches. Magic is something tangibly real, quite unlike time. It can make things happen by bending the human perception of possibility.

Magic can also make time. One could even say that if there was such a thing as time at all (which there isn't), it would be magic. And it was, or is, or will be brought about in the completely non-tangible year of 1998, in the last vestiges of the month of May.

Time is breathed into existence by magic, just for a little, and Harry James Potter was both a catalyst and recipient of time. He was seventeen, really nearly eighteen years old, and then he was fourteen all over again. But the thing is with time is that- just like magic- it's imprecise. There's more to this tale than just a bout of odd de-aging magic, because this is time.

And so very suddenly... it's nineteen seventy-four, and Harry James Potter is fourteen years old.

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ONE DAY EARLIER, OR RATHER, 24 YEARS IN FUTURE.

To say he was overwhelmed was fair. The pounding headache was like that of a thousand drums, and did not seem at all in fair proportion with the lenient drinking spree of last night.

Like every time come before, Harry groaned face first into his pillow and muttered through his drool,

"I'm never drinking again."

It should be Tuesday, he would soon recall, because it was Tuesday at around four thirty that morning when he had crawled home. The birds were still chirping good morning so unless it'd been a full day, he'd only managed a couple hours of rest. Not surprising, that. Always was hard to sleep proper after getting smashed down on the pubs.

Last night had seen George to the brink of tears (yet again) as he took tipsy comfort in the arms of his dead brother's ex-girlfriend. By that point Harry had foregone any type of pacing or self-control, he let the strawberry-vodka shots wave it down. And no, despite what Ron's personal opinion was, drinking flavoured liquors and cocktails doesn't make you a pansy bitch. Besides, the little specialty shots glowed with ambient magic- a nice shade of red, an ode to their House. As long as they came in strawberry, that is.

So despite any hankerings for lime or apple, Harry steered clear on bitter principle. More of a petty 'fuck you' to a dead man, but these were internal musings that no one could chide him for. What did it matter then? Though considering the drunk, miserable company that his friends were made up of, they would likely thump him on the back appreciably. The lot of them probably shot a thoughtful 'fuck you' to the dead Dark Lord on a daily basis. He just was no exception.

Anyways it was really George's fault then, that he was wiping drool from his mouth and pillow. The pillow was stained though, so,

"Scourgify," he croaked hoarsely, with just the faintest bit of his focus singing out of his fingertip. Yes, he groaned again with the effort of sitting up, definitely George's fault he pounded them back. As any proper seventeen year old Harry was loathe to take responsibility for his decision making, never mind that George only had a couple years on him.

Oh, it was Tuesday! Harry was reminded suddenly why they had been drinking in the first place. Not that it needed much of an occasion, but in this case it was downright stupid. Today, the 25th of May, was their first trial run. He and Ron were joining the Hit Wizards.

Hermione was still mad about that. They'd been smart enough not to invite her out last night, or tell her they were planning on getting shitfaced. Overall she disapproved of them opting for Hit Wizards instead of dedicating themselves to their studies again, or even just entering Auror Corps training. She considered it lazy and 'frankly a terrible way of coping'.

But Hit Wizards didn't need formalised training, even if they primarily were recruited from Auror Corps. All the same, he and Ron signed up and were naturally accepted. See? Survive a Dark Lord and you're bound to be able to hold your own. Or at least people give you credibility!

Hermione was not only upset with Harry and her errant boyfriend, she was likely worried too. They were overly ready to thrust themselves back out there. To be fair, Harry thought wryly, we never did have your great sensibilities 'Mione.

His mirror was displeased to see him.

"Look at the state of you! I won't even mention the hair this time- Morgana knows that's a lost cause- boy you look run ragged!"

Harry yawned, "Thanks. Morning to you, too."

"Hmph."

After pulling on a pair of grey wooden trousers and mismatching socks, he was just about ready to get some tea and go. A quick Tempus had told him it was just shy of eleven. They were meant to be there soon. He was sure if he was late it wouldn't be the end of the world, but you know what they say about first impressions.

Ugh, he pulled a face after a draining sip. Too much honey this time. I can never get it right, Harry laments. Always too sweet or too bitter. He never used magic to make tea. It was another one of his principles, as nonsensical as the rest.

Pinching glittery Floo between his thumb and forefinger he sprinkled it over the dead hearth. Stepping into the green flames he said as clearly as he could (with too-sweet tea still sticking in his mouth),

"Access three-nine-zero-two, Hit Division!"

Ron Weasley was never drinking again. Merlin was he glad he crashed on Diagon with George and Angelina, mum'd have had his head for this.

He lifted his head again for some fresh air, something less putrid than the wafting smell from the toilet bowl. But as soon as he turned his nose up, the urge returned, and he thrust his head back into the toilet to spew chunks of schnitzel from the evening before.

A knock at the door. "Ronnie I'll leave a Remedy at the door, yeah? You've got to head off soon." Ron swallowed another wave of vomit and a fresh wave of gratitude to say,

"Thanks George." His brother was right, he had a mission today- Hit Wizards. He hoped Harry was on time too, as he crawled across the tiled floor to push the door open just enough... to grab the Hangover Remedy sitting there for him.

Since Fred died, George hadn't pulled a single prank besides just running the store. Guiltily, this made Ron feel safe in drinking something his older brother gave to him.

The relief was palpable, but still need time to set in. He hobbled to his feet and decided to freshen up just a bit before heading off.

They were the youngest people in the room by far. God, Harry's head was still killing him. He should've known water and tea wasn't going to be enough. He needed some Remedy, like Ron gleefully announced he had drunk just a few minutes before coming.

One more witch came through the floogate, and the man at the front of the room with a ramrod-straight back began to speak.

"I am Commander Wilkins, to my left is Commander Therkell and Commander Levski, in that order. We'll be handling the same case today, separate locations and missions. I'll head the debrief today. Clear?" No one moved to speak, which seemed good enough for Commander Wilkins.

"We'll be following standard Auror procedure- ice and clip, lads." Ron met Harry's eyes and mouthed, what? "And for those not traditionally prepped for this division, ice refers to E-I-S, not particularly in that order mind you, Expelliarmus, Incarcerous, and Stupefy. The 'clip' is a standard Auror kit must have. A hair clip like this-" He held up a small, metallic pin hair clip that snapped loudly shut and open, "-will be used as Portkeys to send apprehended criminals straight to the holding cells, where we have Aurors on standby. They used to use bobby pins," the Commander mused aloud. "but that was before you were even walking!" He cracked a grin at that, but both Harry and Ron flushed.

Most everyone else here was around twice their age, so it was blatantly clear all the information was just for them. Maybe going straight to the Hit Wizards wasn't a good idea, if only because it's potentially humiliating. It seemed clearer and clearer that everyone else kind of knew what to do even with arrests being case-by-case.

"Anyways, we had a lot of department upheaval after Voldemort's disappearance. And instead of corruption, they focused on changing the damn bobby pins." A round of laughs.

Commander Wilkins put his hands up and the room went silent.

"Back to the real matter at hand... We've just had the end of one rebellion for another to crop up! What's new, right? These fellas are the antithesis to the dead Dark Lord and crew but only in philosophy. In execution, well, they're doing a lot of it. And we've finally got some leads on conspirators, so that's what brings us all together today. The message of these people is they're gunning for the end of the wizarding world, which I personally find ironic because they're using magic to get their point across. I digress." The Commander rubbed his chin. "They want complete dissolution of magical communities, and they claim they've had this in the works for a while. Thanked Voldemort for his efforts in offing the population, they did. This is frankly the first time I've heard of them, and they're calling themselves M-S. Try recruiting muggleborns or angry halfbloods for the most part."

"This hasn't been in the news," the witch who came in last said. "Why not?"

"The Death Eaters are still being trialled, while a group of extremists bent on ending the wizarding world are emerging. Why you think we're keeping it under wraps? We'd basically be making Voldemort's people look justified. Which we know they aren't, but they could try and use it as something against muggleborns. Can't have that, especially not so soon."

"People could be in danger though," Harry said. "I see what you're saying, but it could be put in a less threatening or specific light or and still notify people to keep their guard up. We don't need to throw blame."

"We aren't the press. And this is why we exist." Wilkins said sharply. "To stop these sorts before anyone gets hurt."

"Clearly people are being hurt otherwise we wouldn't be here."

"Potter," he warned. Harry bit his tongue and tried to keep the displeasure off his face. He'd never liked the Ministry's secrecy. "So this is our enemy. We will converge on the three points on interest, all warded properties."

Commander Therkell, a short woman with tightly wound hair and skin darker than Hermione's, stepped forward.

"Today it's Westenberg, Macboon, and Hitchin with me." Three separated from their small crowd and followed the Commander.

Next Commander Levski stepped forward, he was very lean. Almost unhealthily so.

"Priority group as follows: Stretton, Podmore, Denbright, Orpington, Montgomery, Bells, and Cliverton." All but one man and Ron and Harry made after Commander Levski.

"Okay so, Jorgensen, Weasley, Potter, with me. We'll be heading overseas, so have a translating spell in mind."

"Where to?" Ron asked.

"France, unfortunately."

"You don't like France?" Harry asked as they went down another winding corridor.

"Disorganised country. France always has some sort of revolution underway," their commander said while keeping a brisk pace. "But since the '74 riots, they've kept it small-scale. Compatriots from a faction formed in name of ritual restrictions being lifted turned on each other that summer. It was a particularly brutal escalation, and the French Ministry of Magic called upon both Britain and Germany for aid. This did little more than flame the fires, of course. Some of you even know that, having been there yourselves," he added wryly.

This got a few chuckles from Jorgensen.

The tone sobered quickly as their footsteps were. "The casualties were enormous. Mostly French nationals, both muggle and magical. But the Germans and we ourselves took hits. It was around this time of May in '74, when we lost sixteen Aurors and three Hit Wizards in a single day. The lack of an organised enemy only made fighting all that much harder."

"Was it You-Know-Who, d'ya reckon?" A gravelly voice snickered behind Harry's right ear. Jorgensen was twice Harry's age and size, and seemed thrumming with anticipation for the arrest.

"No," Commander Wilkins said sharply. "And yes, I heard that. But it was not Lord Voldemort. He was not one for organising levels of... chaos like this. Certainly not in '74. Historically speaking, the only example of direct might exercised by the man himself was the Battle of Hogwarts." His eyes flitted, naturally, to Ron and Harry.

Harry didn't begrudge him that.

They came to a stop at a frail looking wooden door.

"It's for quick in and out apparations, different rooms like this around the Ministry for certain authorised folk," Jorgensen explained.

"Figures," Ron said, although neither of them had ever heard of such a thing.

"Team's ready?" he asked while slipping a photograph into their hands. It depicting an old village lane, and it would be charming if not for the grisly look of the people on the street and the state of the buildings. The only nice thing really, was the flowers hanging out of baskets from windows as far as could be seen.

If Harry had known anything about flowers (naturally he didn't), he'd have known those were lilies and petunias.

"Yessir," Jorgensen bit out.

"Uh yeah," Ron tacked on. "Definitely." He nodded convincingly. Were they supposed to say honourifics? Harry had no idea how these sorts of things went. They used to just wing it! Once again their inexperience tasted bad and he felt like, for the millionth time in his life, they should've listened to Hermione.

Yes sir," Harry said deliberately. Wilkins just continued to give the trio a long once over. Harry realised what the photographs were for- obviously!- and studied it a little closer. They needed to have a clear picture in mind to apparate there when repellent wards were active. He hoped Ron had realised too, because he wasn't going to embarrass him by telling him in front of their team.

"Okay," Wilkins said finally. "See you lads there." And he popped out. The ex-Auror immediately went and that left Ron and Harry.

"M'head's still killing me," Harry griped. Ron grinned.

"Should've pilfered Hermione's potions stock." And he popped out, too. Harry snorted, focused, and popped himself out of the cramped office: destination France.

Something went terribly wrong, as he saw a burst of flowers and then nothing at all.