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A/N Yeah...this is just so that there's more than the start of things...this is an actual chap as opposed to the prologue. Expect bimonthly updates from here on out. Do enjoy!

He was surprised, when he opened his eyes, to find himself much deeper into the trees than he was a moment before. He blinked twice, and looked around him. There was that foul stench coming from the mill, something he hadn't smelled since he was a boy. The mill had shut down shortly before he left Hogwarts, why was it operating again?


And then, the realization hit him.


It had worked. He was back. And now he had a chance to fix the wrongs in his life. Now he had a chance to make everything right again. A quick glamor was cast-it would not do to be walking around looking like his adult self. Not when his fifteen-year-old self was all of up the street from where he was currently standing. Not with his father still in the house up the street from where he was currently standing.


He walked out of the trees cautiously, looking about, making sure there was no one around before venturing further. The town was much as it had been in his childhood, and much like it currently was. He smiled slightly to himself. This was the current. Where he had just come from was the future, yet to happen. Yet to not happen. He would fix things.


Although, he had to admit, the Headmaster did have a bit of a point. If he fixed things, there would be no reason for him to get the time-turner in the first place, because if he fixed things then he would have never needed to wind up teaching in that infernal school. And had he not been teaching, he would have never come into contact with the object.


Would his impulsiveness cost him?


He didn't think so. They said that you couldn't create a paradox with a time-turner. He doubted he was the first person to go back and try to fix their lives. Go back and correct a past mistake to make things right again for themselves. He couldn't be. It was far too tempting, others had to have fallen for it.


Of course, that was why they kept these things under lock and key in the Department of Mysteries.


His feet carried him down to the main street, and past the newsstand, where he looked at a copy of the day's paper. Yes, there it was. July 1st, 1975. twenty years prior to the day he was standing in the headmaster's office. He gave a small chuckle to himself, it was so...awkward to think of time in that sense. twenty years in the future, he had been doing something. It was odd, to say the least Slightly disconcerting. But, he thought, it was worth it. And he would get used to it soon enough.


He paused for a moment at the next intersection, looking at himself in a shop window. The black hair had been turned blond, the beak-like nose shortened to a normal-length, the flowing black robes altered to a pair of black slacks and matching shirt. He looked nothing like he did before. He supposed he should probably find someone to steal some hair from, glamors were tiring and draining to maintain. Polyjuice potion, on the other hand, was not.


He looked up the street, swinging left and walking up the road that ran alongside the river. He was surprised to find it still somewhat clear, and not quite as filled with sludge as it was when he had last seen it. The mill hadn't quite killed the town with it's overbearing pollution yet, it still had another few years to do so.


The house itself still looked exactly the same. Perhaps, though, it was due to the general state of disrepair it had been in to start with. The same shutter was drooping off a second story window, like a tear sliding down a cheek, blue against the pale white of the house. There was the same overgrown hawthorn bush that no one ever thought of chopping down, or even cutting back. The same decrepit Citroen was still out front, if anything, it looked better twenty years later. At least in the future it had a sort of “classic charm” to it.


He ignored the glamor in favor of a disillusionment charm, and peeked in through the kitchen window. His mother was there, standing over the stove, muttering on about something, the same way she always was, with her limp black hair hanging inches from the pot. He could see the outline of his father in the living room, watching the tele, no doubt an Everton match.


He was surprised at the way that the back garden fence was able to hold his weight. If he had tried that in his own time, the fence would have no doubt collapsed. But now, it was still young, spry, able to hold him even now that he was twenty years older and not nearly as small as he used to be. What surprised him more was the easy way that he swung back up onto the porch roof.. It had been a practiced motion when he was younger, a way to get in and out of the house without his father knowing. And it seemed it was still embedded in his memory.


It was looking into the window of his old bedroom that he knew he could make things right. He saw himself, in all of his awkward, lanky, fifteen-year-old glory, sprawled out on a bed, looking rather much like a drowned spider, limbs thrown akimbo on all sides of the tiny twin bed. The room had changed so much since he had left Hogwarts. There was the old Everton poster that he had torn down after his father's death-it had been the only thing they had in common. And there was his Slytherin scarf, wrapped loosely around the headboard. There was a small AM radio on the nightstand, playing something softly. It had since been replaced by the tele that was downstairs. With his father out of the house, it wasn't necessary to keep it down there.


The furnishings were still blue and white-Everton colors. There was a football ducked into a corner of the room, gathering dust, and his broomstick-his old battered Comet there as well, looking considerably more loved. Somehow he felt more like he belonged and even more alienated all at once. He could see himself, and he knew what the boy on the bed was more than likely dreaming of as he slept in late on a lazy Sunday afternoon. And he wanted nothing more than to fulfill those dreams.


He slipped from the porch roof with an ease that surprised even him, and started heading back to the street when the soft hooting of an owl stopped him. He hadn't had an owl as a boy, his mother had, but this wasn't Bubo's hooting. He looked up to see an owl with a copy of the Daily Prophet tied to it's leg, and he smiled to himself. It'd been twenty years, he was lucky if he could remember what year he was in school back then, much less major and minor happenings of the world. Best to get himself reacquainted with the time period before attempting to impose himself into this life.


He called the owl down, fishing out an owl treat he knew he had somewhere. Neither his mother, nor his fifteen-year-old self would miss the Prophet  for a day. He tucked the paper under his arm, and headed back to the park. It was always a preferred place to sit and relax, it was so infrequently used. He sat beneath a tree, his back against it, and skimmed through the articles. A bit on the front page about the wonderful things Barty Crouch was doing for Magical Law Enforcement, a bit on the second page about Voldemort being on the rise, the third page was devoted to how well the Canons were doing that season. That he remembered. They hadn't had a season where they approached .500 since.


And on the back were the classifieds, same as ever. He skimmed through them, he supposed a place to live would be nice, although he didn't think he'd particularly care to live in Ottery St. Catchpole, where it seemed as if all the listings were. It was under “Careers” however, that a listing caught his eye. Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor needed. 1 yr contract w/ extension possible. Hogwarts. Owl resume to: Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster. Salary negotiable.


He hadn't given much thought to how exactly he was going to fix things with his life. But if he were to be in Hogwarts, he could be there to guide his own life through the school. Fifth year had certainly been the roughest on him-it had been the year that things had spiraled out of control. It had been the year where everything went wrong. If he could stop it, prevent it, have everything go right again through his own intervention, he would.


He smiled to himself, and found his feet carrying him into the town library, ready to compose his resume, thinking up all the falsities that Dumbledore would be absolutely ecstatic to hear.

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