Back For The First Time, Harry?

Petunias and Lilies

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.

~^~

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.