Summary: After years of fighting in the War, Harry realizes that Voldemort has won. In a desperate gamble for one more chance, he goes back in time to try to get things right. He soon finds himself training in the Auror Academy with more than one familiar face. AU, with his past deviating from cannon a little bit in the fifth book, a little bit more in the sixth book and then in a major way for the seventh book. Some elements form those stories will be kept and brought into play later in this fic.

AN: Either way, this is just an idea I've been throwing around, enjoy.

Disclaimer: No Harry Potter Series character, item, plot device, etc. belongs to me; they belong to JKR, who is not to be confused with JFK.

"Welcome Trainees," a loud voice boomed; every green recruit there could hear it, even without the aid of a charm, "My name is Alastor Moody. I will be training you lot to become successful Aurors. Only those capable of passing my training will be allowed to go on. Don't beg if you fail. If you fail there is a reason for it, that reason is that you would not survive field work. Look to the left of you and look to the right and say goodbye to one of them; of the one hundred trainees here today only about fifty will pass basic training which will cover the next three months." The girl to the left snidely bid him adieu, he didn't respond, didn't even look at her.

He stood stock still and let his dark eyes follow Alastor back and forth across the room while his face remained forward and impassive. Moody began to weave in between the four equal rows, correcting stance here and outfit there. He was in the last row, on the far corner. One recruit, a sandy haired boy, was told that for every word he continued to whisper to his friend represented how the chance of him making it through training was falling further and further; the boy blushed and mumbled an apology. Moody mocked him a bit for being a child; here they were to become Men and Woman. We're all boys and girls though, he thought, most of the people who died in the war were. Just small kids dressed up in army green with cork riffles. The nightmares followed him, it was why he was late, why he was in the back row in the back corner- the nightmare of the final battle had dogged him through the beginning of the night and in his exhaustion he had slept through his alarm, late on the first day and no doubt Mad-Eye noticed.

Moody reached him last. "And what's your name, boy?"

"Mark Evans, sir," he replied, his voice was soft but it carried.

"Couldn't be bothered to make it on time today, recruit? Spending too much time on your hair was your problem," Moody put in snidely, he didn't rise to the bait but continued to stare ahead while his teacher surveyed his hair, it was bottle green and spiky. "We need dependable people in the Auror department. You realize people die for simple mistakes such as these, do you not?" Moody's voice carried too.

It was probably a rhetorical question, most of it was. It was to make the cry babies go home early, keep the tough people who knew how to play grown-up, who knew they did not have their parents anymore to come to their rescue, who knew their mistakes rested in their small, pudgy hands. The rest would go home, they were the lucky ones. He answered the question anyways, pulling his eyes from the front of the room to meet Alastor's "Yes, I know." Moody looked annoyed for a moment, his normal eye staring into Mark's black ones while his magical eye swirled wildly. Other recruits he would drive for mistakes such as these, especially early on when he needed to make an impression. But there was something about Mark Evans that lead Moody to simply give an irritated humph, before turning sharply on his heel and heading back for the front of the room. Ah well, he could always kill the little blighter later if he caused any more problems.

"Helping me here for at least the first part of your training will be Kingsley Shaklebolt-" Kingsley stepped in from the other room and went to stand by Moody. He looked much like Mark had remembered him, tall, black and bald with a stocky frame, but there were fewer lines around his face. Moody looked younger too, for that matter, a little less scared with a little more nose than he had had the first time he had met him, –"and Alice Longbottom." She walked confidently out onto the floor, holding herself much like her son had begun to do once he had gained more confidence in himself. She looked a bit like him too; same height with a little plumpness that Mark doubted would ever go away, same round face and kind eyes too. Mark figured he would like her; maybe he could even get her to talk about James and Lily- doubtful, he couldn't give away too much.

There were scattered claps welcoming the new teachers in. Happy Birthday, Neville, a bit early but what can you do, Mark thought to himself. The key to bringing the Longbottoms back to their right mind shouldn't have been found for another six years, but Mark had figured that the Longbottoms deserved a bit of happiness, before it all went to hell. 'Sides, it made him feel better about the fact that there was nothing he could do for the other himself who would still live in a cupboard under the stairs for two more weeks. So an anonymous tip was sent to St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies three months prior and both Frank and Alice had been released shortly after. He had been a bit perturbed to learn that Alice had considered taking the Defense Against the Dark Arts position at Hogwarts (which just seemed like she was asking for it) for a bit and was pleased when she decided that teaching green recruits would be a better job.

Seven more Junior Aurors were introduced as well, though it was explained that they would cycle out every week, with one exception. Mark got the impression that this was sort of considered the Bitch Shift for most of the lot, and that all of them would prefer to be elsewhere, even if elsewhere meant filing paper work.

"We'll start this week off with some basic physical training, because we won't be able to even begin working on your pathetic magical capabilities if you still have that baby fat slowing you down," Alastor was booming again. "Form a line by that booth and we'll hand out your group assignments." The effect was instantaneous. Everyone began jockeying for the best spot in line, some even cutting up ahead with their buddies, much like teenagers at a lunch line. Mark hung back, he wasn't in the mood to deal with these people, he wouldn't even be here in the first place but he had heard the Moody and Shaklebolt were doing this years training program and he could use the experience, he would need it, besides, he wasn't quite sure what else there was that he should do.

The system for dividing the class into teams consisted of handing out different colored shirts randomly; there were ten colors—red, orange, yellow, green, blue, violet, pink, white, black and brown—and there were ten people in each of them. The three Senior Officers tried to split up friends as much as possible, they needed competitors to push each other, not cliques to coddle. Alastor saved him a green shirt and threw it at him, calling him a pretty boy and saying that it would go nicely with his hair. Mark simply nodded at him. All the recruits took off the shirts they were wearing, girls included (as they were all wearing sports bras anyways it wasn't such a big deal), and switch it out with the ones they had just received. The shirts they removed were thrown into a pile in the corner to be retrieved before they left at the end of the day.

All of the Aurors took a group and grabbed a Portkey which transported them to separate training grounds. Moody stuck with Mark and the sandy haired boy, who was also in the Green Group, and held an old cup out for all of them to grab. Evans wished three things simultaneously, that it wasn't a Portkey, that it wasn't with Moody and that it wasn't a cup, all of which resulted in one bad memory. "Touch the damn cup, Boy," Moody growled, and Mark reluctantly touched the pad of one finger the handle. There was a sharp pull from behind his navel and he found himself swirling around and wishing one final thing- that he had gotten a hang of landing on his feet with these damn things.

By the time the team broke up to return to the mess hall for lunch, Mark was in a foul mood. He grabbed a tray and loaded it up with a thick soup, a roll of bread and a banana before making his way over to an unoccupied corner. He sat down and began to swish his bread in his soup and zone out. He didn't know what he was doing back here. It hurt, to see all those faces he had lost and to look out in a world filled with hope and only find opportunities for despair. He needed to train, he knew that much, but what he was planning to do after that he was unsure. He had already changed the time line up, what with bringing Frank and Alice. Pettigrew needed to be captured as well, it would be best to do that at the Kings Cross Station he figured. But beyond that, Mark hadn't had much of a plan, it wasn't his strong suit and it certainly wasn't what he had in mind when he had grabbed a hold of Hermione's mutated a time turner to bring him back here. Something needed to change though, he couldn't let it happen the same way it had the first time.

"Wotcher," a hand shook his shoulder as a voice sounded from in front of him, he looked up startled. "Err, sorry, didn't mean to interrupt you or anything but you had been staring at your soup for a good fifteen minutes and we were beginning to get worried about you."

"Oh," Mark responded, a little lost for a moment or two. The piece of bread had all but disintegrated in his hands, with bits still floating like islands in his soup. She was in the Pink Group, which was fitting for her, three others wearing pink shirts sat around. She had managed to make friends, he noted, suddenly feeling a little bit alienated and alone, but of course she made friends, she was hard to dislike. "I'm sorry, I'm Mark." He wiped a hand on his trousers and reached around to shake her hand. She smiled at him.

"Name's Tonks. This here is Andrew, Alex and Sarah," she pointed to the three other people around her, who each nodded in turn. Mark didn't know the other three, but Tonks he remembered vividly. She looked very much the same as she did when they met for the first time just before his fifth year; she looked very much the same as she did when she died two years later too. Her hair was still short and spiky, and vividly colored the same pink as her shirt, her face was pale and heart shaped and she had a smile on her face. "First days tough, isn't it, I'm betting at least one won't come back for day two."

"Probably not," he agreed, thinking of a few people he wished were amongst that list. She then rambled off a few other questions, which he answered in one or two word sentences. An awkward silence fell when she had exhausted all the basic chit-chatty subjects.

"I like your hair," she bubbled nervously.

Mark began to move his hand up to flatten his fringe over his forehead before he remembered that he no longer had a fringe. He grazed his fingers over the spikes instead. "Yeah, I think Moody likes it too." Tonks cracked a smile at that.

"Thank Merlin; I was beginning to think you didn't have a personality." The bell ending lunch was called shortly after and the teams went back to their leaders for more training.

By the time he had got back to his flat just outside of Diagon Alley, Mark was about ready to pass out. Instead he adjusted the taps in the bathroom and leaned his forehead against the tiled wall as he stood under the spray. He needed to start planning, figuring out the key events that could undue Voldemort. First off though, he needed to go shopping; he had salvaged some stuff from before and managed to bring that to the past as well, but he couldn't live out this time line with just a futon as the only furniture in a two bedroom apartment.

He washed his hair quickly, jumped out of the shower and threw on some jeans and a gray hoodie because he didn't have any other clean shirts, and tied up his faded black converses. He pocketed some cash that he had left over form when he was on the run and went down the stairs and into muggle London. Within a few hours he had worked his way through all but a hundred quid of the cash but had bought a comfortable wardrobe, that actually fit him (consisting mostly of jeans, sweats, football shorts, basic t-shirts, and, of course, boxers and socks). Buying partially from IKEA and partially from a thrift store he managed to afford a bed and a dresser (for his bedroom), a small coach and coffee table (for his living room), and a desk, chair and bookshelf (for his second bedroom turned study) and groceries. He'd still have to sleep on the futon on the floor tonight though, most of the stuff wouldn't arrive until the next day as he wasn't about to carry anything heavy to his apartment the day after training under Moody.

He then trekked back to his apartment again and began to put away his foodstuff in the plywood cupboards. Then he pulled out necessary ingredients for making pasta with a meat sauce. He began to hum softly as he prepared the meal and then, with a conspiratorial look around to make sure no one else was around—of course no one was—broke out into full fledged song. His untrained voice faltered a bit but gained strength as it carried its way through certain pop songs he had heard over the years. He didn't have the memory needed to make up his own songs and tunes, but the ones he had heard he remembered well enough, and he repeated them like a mockingbird. He thought about what he knew of his future and his past and decided that the best thing he could do was to take it all one day at a time.

AN: Well, so much for the intro. This is much shorter than any of the real chapters will be, at about half the length. Please leave some suggestions for where it could go, constructive criticism is also more than welcome, or just feel free to leave a review. Also, please note that updates about new chapters will be posted on my profile page so check that out if you're wondering when things are going to be updated.