Harry smirked as he strolled down the streets of Privet Drive. This summer had been interesting, to say the least. The young man was more confident now, fingers absently touching the bracelet on his right arm. A pair of pliers and the fire orb had helped him fashion a pair of bracers out of scrap iron from the small playground that was starting to fall apart from disuse. The orbs seemed to be immune to fire like most normal crystals, so he had used them to mold the depressions they were now nestled in.

As it was, that was the most normal thing about the crystals. The more he used them in the small wooded area outside of the community, where he had followed the song of a new orb, this one with the tingle of lightning, the easier it was to call up spells, and the stronger they started to feel. They needed skin contact to be used, so he had left small circles out of the bottom of the bracers so they were always in contact with his arms. And strangest of all was that while he could sense there was something special about the red crystal, he had yet to be able to get it to work. It felt like he needed more strength to use it, strength he was gaining every time he shrank a tree, or set the couch on fire.

That was a nice change. Having magic the Ministry couldn't trace meant he now had the upper hand on the Dursleys. A few hours after the iron bangles had cooled, he'd frozen the refrigerator closed, and informed the trio that "The Ministry can't trace this. So the name of the Game is, Make Harry Happy, Or Harry Ruins Your 'Normal' Life."

He wasn't unreasonable with them, mostly make sure he had a portion of dinner ready for him instead of scraps of leftovers or a single almost-rotten banana or anything. He hated them as much as they hated him, so he wasn't about to sit and eat with them. But he refused to stoop to their level and act like a bastard. The only other large demand was that they leave him alone, especially when he wandered the neighborhood.

This doesn't mean he didn't keep them on their toes. It was his pleasure to remind them not to mess with him whenever they slipped up. Usually the one slipping up was Vernon. Dudley was strangely quiet this summer, and Petunia plain knew better. And the more he 'played' with his Walrus of an Uncle, the more control he had over the Magic.

The young man smirked again as he headed out of the area. He was heading into the local area, towards the tube station. He had found that he enjoyed the rides, something familiar in the underground that he attributed to his dreams again. There were a lot of new habits of his that he had picked up from what he was starting to see as something closer to memories than fights of fancy. One such habit was more of an evolution of his love of flight. He found himself looking for high-up places to perch himself and think. Another was his periodic touching of the iron bangles on his arms, long fingers caressing the marbles, enjoying the songs they quietly whispered in his head.

They were nicer companions than the other occupant in his mind. Voldemort had decided that since the Ministry knew about him, that the kid gloves were off. Every night, if he wasn't looking through the eyes of a warrior, he was looking through the eyes of a Dark Lord. But this was where one of his new habits was coming in handy. He couldn't block the bastard yet, but through the 'memories,' he'd picked up the skill of meditation. It helped him stay calm, kept him from flying off the handle whenever the Dark Tosser taunted him. Part of him wondered if this was what Snape had meant by 'clearing his mind.'

Harry met his own eyes in the dark mirror of a window. With the steady amount of food this summer, he had put on another few inches. He felt that he should be worried about the new arch to his bangs as they feathered over his brow, or maybe the silver showing up in his hair should have had him concerned. The features just felt natural to him.

They felt like him.

He flicked a finger through the feathering of his bangs as he came up on the tube station, flicking his card over the scanner for the turnstyle. His memories still hadn't given him a clear view of his face, but the hints all showed his bangs arching over his forehead like how they were starting to grow in as. The rest of his hair was still just as wild, but had started to gain some length. As long as it didn't turn the pure silver of his memories, he wasn't going to worry.

Part of him wondered what his friends were doing as he grabbed the pole in the center of the train, swaying with the train as it left the station. Thing is, he wasn't sure which set of friends he was thinking of, Hermione and Ron or the three main faces from his dreams. Still, if he was gaining memories of an old life (And what else could it be?), maybe the other Soldiers would too some day.

Soldier. That was another word that felt so familiar to him. No, not soldier, SOLDIER. Something about that word was important to him. (Or was it a word? It also felt like an anagram of Special Operatives, Logistics, Demolitions, Intelligence, Espionage, Rescue.) Almost as important as his urge to run and fight and the tug at his mind of something calling him. The urge to reach out his hand and grasp something. He shook his head. He was going insane, the fact that he wasn't worried about that should have been an issue.

He sighed as he ducked out of the train at the next stop, only to blink at the familiar figure waiting for him across the platform. "Headmaster."

Dumbledore smiled benignly at the young man, refusing to react to the changes in him. The stress of the war effected everyone in different ways, and he doubted the young mage was getting a full night's sleep. The gray starting to thread through the wild mane should not be that much of a surprise. "Harry, I trust you've been having a nice summer?"

A slow smirk. "Nicer than last year at any rate," he offered.

"I'm sure you've been enjoying giving your guardians the slip, but I must ask you for a favor."

"Oh? What could you possibly need?"

The young mage smirked as Dumbledore Apparated to a very nice neighborhood. He could read between the lines. He was the bait. The man they were trying to find 'collected' up and coming talent, and would see him, the Boy-Who-Lived, as the pinnacle of his collection. To be able to brag and say he'd taught The Harry Potter, who could resist?

Turns out he was very close to his mark on the man. Slughorn was a tubby older man who made Harry blink in memory of two others. He would have said three, but Horace didn't have the mental strength of one of the men in his head, while he clearly had many of the traits of the other two, including the weirdly-faint scent of, lard?

The young man shook his head a few minutes later, outside the Weasley kitchen door. Dumbledore had said that he'd stay there for the last few days of the summer before returning to Hogwarts. Dreams or not, he was already looking forward to it. 'Thank goodness the Mini spell will last as long as I need it to', he thought, hand patting the shrunken trunk in his pocket.

Hermione and Ron were sitting at the kitchen table, obviously waiting up for him, though Ron was helping himself to a second helping of dinner while he waited. Neither noticed him in the doorway. "I still don' shee te fun o' tha' book," Ron slurred.

"Don't talk with your mouth full Ron, it's unbecoming," Hermione intoned. Harry was intrigued to see streaks of cinnamon red in her chestnut hair. Did it bleach in the sun, or did she feel like adding hair dye? "And it's interesting, a poem, a play, a prophecy. It matters how you want to read into it." Her voice took on a sing song tone as she recited. The lines were a familiar shot to the heart. "When the war of the beasts brings about the world's end, the Goddess descends from the sky. Wings of light and dark spread afar. She guides us to bliss, her gift everlasting."

"…Loveless, the Prologue."

Hermione's head came up, eyes flashing as she turned slowly to the young man. "You, remember?"

A slow smile. How can I not, when you've beaten it into my head?" he asked, tapping at his temple slowly. Both teens ignored Ron's muttering of 'stupid poetry,' a familiar energy building between them. "Welcome back."