"If you can't beat them, join them; unless, of course, they are a group of blood-thirsty, homicidal maniacs in white masks and black robes trying to kill you. In that case, you keep on trying to beat them."

Harry J. Potter

Screams, the quiet rustle of wind, and a flash of ominous green light; that was all that was left, a memory. A memory, such an indescribable thing. Harry Potter had lots of memories. He had his memory of winning the quidditch cup, his memory of flying a car to school, and a memory of his first birthday present, but he also had other memories.

Memories that would terrify the strongest of men, and send the most powerful to tears; memories that were horrible to recount, yet must or would turn your mind against you.

Harry Potter had lots of those memories too. But, as most would, he much preferred the nicer ones about such trivial things as eating his first pumpkin pasty.

He got up from his place in the grass, and carefully picked up his book Martial Arts Assists Magical Flow? The Theories by Horatio Frumler. It had been a birthday present from Hermione, accompanied with a note of how he shouldn't sulk too much and to start his homework.

Harry snorted, if only Hermione knew just how busy Harry had been. Coming home last June, he had decided that the only way to get over it and stop worrying was to get active.

The dark haired boy practically heard Hagrid's booming voice all over again saying "What's going to 'appen, will 'appen. An' ther's no use worryin' 'bout it 'till it does"

'But you can get ready for it' Harry silently added. And Harry had gotten ready. It seemed that a magical bookstore in Winchester received Owl Orders, and that Dudley had some old weights in the basement.

"Get over here, boy!" came his aunt's voice, in its usual high screeching tone.

He rubbed his ear, as if in silent apology that it would have to suffer with Aunt Petunia's screeches and Uncle Vernon's bellows.

Taking off his dirty tennis shoes at the door, Harry came in to the usual sight. His relatives (as much as he loathed the fact) seated at the breakfast table waiting for him to prepare breakfast for them. Uncle Vernon was reading the newspaper 'As if he can read,' thought Harry, mentally smirking. Dudley say, piggy as ever and taking up most of the table, eyes glued to the television screen as if it held the answer to life. Aunt Petunia, however, was at the window; peeking through the blinds and the next door neighbors, making some indignant sound at the fact that their grass remained green throughout the drought that had returned this summer.

Harry walked over to the refrigerator, going through the same routine that he had practiced since an early age. The Order's threat hadn't done anything to quench the Dursley's work-the-magic-out-of-him-attitude. He doubted that the whole incident had even gotten through their thick skulls. Still probably thought that they were talking to Harry or something.

He had tried his hardest, and come to sad terms with Sirius' death. As much as he hated it, he knew that it was simply life, and the only thing to do was to try his darn hardest to get Voldemort. That is what Sirius would have wanted; after all, he always was more of a "do it" kind of guy. Harry fondly remembered his bark-like laugh, and how whenever wet would shake it off like a dog. How he would glare at the mention of Pettigrew (here in this thought stream Harry issued a string of curses) and make him smile when no-one else could. He had gotten over it, as well as one might such an occurrence, and he knew that he wouldn't forget.

Careful not to trip over a small rug, he deposited the food onto their table, smirking at Dudley who had managed to tear his eyes away from the TV screen long enough to give Harry a fearful glance. Taking his own rations of scrambled eggs sandwiched by toast, he went back upstairs, careful to take his book from the hallway table.

Jumping up the steps, two or three at a time, he ambled upstairs, to finish the book and get on with his practice. He remembered to call out behind him where he sensed his 'watcher':

"Hey, Tonks!"

Harry heard a crash and Tonks had no doubt tripped over something in shock.

The Boy-Who-Lived was just full of surprises.