AN: Time skip! Harry Potter has been brainwashed using several potions and charms, and he has been switched into Gryffindor house. Will he ever regain his memories?

------ Day One of the Second War -----

Harry woke up with groggy eyes. He looked around his dormitory but nobody was there. Alone, he could be himself, he could relax. He sighed and thought about yesterday's events. He had just met Voldemort, the revived dark lord, and had some how managed to escape through sheer dumb luck. He was glad he escaped, but with Cedric's death looming over his shoulders like a heavy burden, he felt empty.

He wanted to scream at the world, wanted to wake them up from their lazy stupor but that wasn't going to happen, not until Voldemort showed himself. Everyone would think he was lying. Dumbledore had told him what to expect.

"We must strive onward, even in the face of ridicule, Harry," Dumbledore said. They were having tea in his office to calm him down after his encounter with Voldemort and the fake death eater, Professor Moody, a disguise for the villainous Bertemius Crouch Jr.

The tea was too hot and the office was too cold. Dumbledore got a serious look in his eye as he looked at Harry up and down. It made him uncomfortable, being under the scrutinity of perhaps the greatest wizard in the wizarding world save for Voldemort. But his fight with the Dark Lord had given him some nerve and he asked the question, the same one he had asked Dumbledore back in first year.

"Why is he after me?" He asked in a soft voice, "Why did he choose to kill me – or try to anways – when I was a baby?" He didn't expect an answer. He kept his eyes on Fawkes, on the brilliant red and gold phoenix who looked at Harry with big black eyes. The phoenix hopped on the desk, scattering sheaths of parchment on the floor. It hopped onto Harry's shoulder in a big leap, and then started to sing in his ears.

It made Harry feel calm. His back hurt, his eyes hurt, his arms hurt. But the pain faded away and he felt peaceful, as if he could lie down and go to sleep. But at the same time he felt more alert than ever, and he brought his eyes to Dumbledore, and blue eyes met green eyes, looking at each other like best friends – and worst enemies.

"What are you hiding, sir?" Harry hissed in a moment of insight. He felt angry, outraged in fact because he knew – by Dumbledore's silence and by the new sensations phoenix song brought to him that there was something he should know about concerning him.

"I am hiding something," Dumbledore admitted, taking out his wand. Harry tensed. Then relaxed. It was Dumbledore. He would not hurt him. Harry trusted the old man. Dumbledore waved his wand, and a cupboard door flew open, revealing a silver bowl with a golden greenish trim. The bowl was really big. It had silver liquid floating in it that was as bright as the sun.

"This, Harry, is a pensieve." Dumbledore said in response to his unspoken question. Harry looked at it in awe. He felt the power surrounding this obviously rare artifact. There were runes that Harry could see on the sides of the bowl as it levitated closer toward him. Fawkes crooned sadly and flew to his perch. Harry barely noticed. The bowl landed with a thud on the wooden desk. A machine that looked like a clock with the planets for numbers tipped over and fell with a shattering sound of glass breaking. Dumbledore merely flicked his wand and the machine righted itself, floated back up on the desk.

"Come and let us journey into the realms of memory, Harry," Dumbledore said, "For in a pensieve, memories are as real as you and I, sitting here on this dark eve." Dumbledore looked a bit strange to Harry, a little bit out of touch with reality. He looked like Luna Lovegood.

Harry thought that perhaps Dumbledore was just getting old, but that was not quite the case. There was a sharpness in his twinkly blue eyes that bespoke of great intelligence, far surpassing Harry in its cunning. Here sat a leader, one Harry was willing to follow.

"What-" Harry swallowed, "A memory sir? One of your memories?" He asked. He wondered why Dumbledore was showing him this. Was it about Lord Voldemort? Harry shuddered. Would he be expected to… to fight him? Wasn't he responsible for the Dark Lord's rebirth?

"Yes, it is a memory, of a prophecy," Dumbledore said, his voice echoing in the room. His eyes were misty, and he looked slightly lost as if he were gazing far away at something that only he could see. Dumbledore nudged his wand into the liquid, and lifted it slowly. A silvery cloud of vapour rose up from the bowl, and began to fill the entire room.

Harry's vision turned pure silver, and then suddenly he found himself in a room, a coffee shop perhaps, a private room where Professor Dumbledore – in a navy blue twinkling moon outfit – was talking to Professor Trelawnway. Then the divination professor's eyes turned back so no pupils showed, only the whites of the eyes and in a hoarse whisper she began to speak, like a possessed person.

"The one with the power to save us all, born as the seventh month dies, born to defeat the dark lord for only one can survive and either must die at the hands of the other. He shall have the power the dark lord knows not, the power to save us all, born to parents thrice defying the Dark Lord, marked equal, born as the seventh month dies."

Harry began to sweat. His mind started to rave and race like a mad man. He thought to himself, that's me, I'm the one in the prophecy… and then the shocking revelation made him fall on the hard wood floor of the coffee shop. Dumbledore – the Dumbledore from the office – put a hand on Harry's shoulder and helped him to his feet, shaking his head slightly. "Let us begone from this memory dream," he said, his words shaking with hidden power – and sorrow.

The scene began to fade, and once again Harry felt drowned in silver. Then when he opened his eyes, Fawkes came at him gently, and sang. Harry felt happy, glad, but there was an empty hollow feeling raging in his heart as he took in the contents of the prophecy.

"How do we know it's real?" Harry asked, "Trelawnway is a fraud."

"Professor Trelawnway, Harry," Dumbledore said gently. Harry looked up at the Professor, slightly startled out of his train of thoughts by the correction. Feeling slightly brave – as if nothing could scare him after the encounter he had with Lord Voldemort – he petted Fawkes on the neck.

"She's not much of a Professor," Harry commented as if chatting about the weather, "In fact, I don't think much of her skills with divination."

"You might be right," Dumbledore said, "But in this case, the prophecy was genuinely made. I have investigated it quite thoroughly, both the prophet as well as the prophecy and I assure you in the fact that I left nothing out. Not a single detail."

Harry caught on fast and said, "Voldemort found out about the prophecy, didn't he?"

"Somebody was listening in at the door, a death eater follower of his who does not follow him any longer." Dumbledore said vaguely.

Harry didn't know what to say after that, and the two spent the next hour in a stony silence, sipping tea. Each lost in their thoughts yet none of them willing to relinquish the presence of the other. Somehow they were comforted by each other in a master and apprentice relationship, each needing the other's support.

Finally Dumbledore rose with a sigh and a crack of his hip. He chuckled softly to himself, and bade Harry good night, "Get some sleep, for tomorrow will be a difficult day for you."

Harry did just that.

And now here he was, awake after the worst day and night of his life. He had tossed and turned, and had not gotten much sleep, lost in thoughts, dreams, and plans.

He felt responsible, even though he knew he was not. But it was his blood that resurrected Voldemort, and so Harry felt that he should step up to his task, and start taking his place as the one indicated by the prophecy.

"The power that will save us all," he whispered to himself.

It was a few days before summer vacation arrived, and exams were highly tense things even though Harry did not have to take them. He felt the stress of the other students, especially their burning curiousity about what had happened in the graveyard.

But he did not talk to anyone. He wanted to be alone, wanted to repent, to say something to the universe about Cedric Diggory.

After all, it was his fault Cedric was dead. His chivalry was to blame, and his sense of fair play.

He should not have been so generous. He should have taken the cup and declared himself the champion. After all, was he not the champion?

"Harry, let's have a game of chess, then?" asked Percy Weasley one night while Harry had just finished flying on his fire bolt for a good hour. He was sweaty and he felt surprisingly fresh after the fly, but still, thoughts – murderous thoughts – plagued him.

He couldn't admit to himself that he was capable of murder, but he knew deep in his heart that he would do everything he possibly could to defeat Voldemort, get justice for Cedric, for his parents.

Harry nodded, and smiled slightly because he had refused everyone else's attention, and yet he felt like he needed to speak to someone because at the moment he was a bit lonely, thinking about Cedric Diggory and the murder.

"Alright, a game it is," Harry said. "Perhaps we should go to the library?"

"Splendid idea," Percy said, "Well, come on then. I have the chess set right under my arm in my book bag." Written on Percy's black book bag were the white letters: Property of the Ministry of Magic.

Harry followed along, and Percy chatted about his years at Hogwarts, being a prefect, getting good grades, and eventually taking a job at the ministry under Mr. Crouch. "It's a cushy job, and there's lots of room for advancement." Percy said. Then as they were approaching the library, he turned to Harry and asked him in a serious tone, "What happened to Mr. Diggory?"

Harry was totally taken aback with the suddenness – as well as the shock – of the line of questioning.

Percy perhaps took it as a sign of guilt. "You can tell me, Harry. I shan't breathe a word of it to anyone else. Your secret is safe with me."

"Voldemort killed him," Harry blurted out.

Percy shook his head sadly and then plastered a smile on his face that Harry could see through right away. "Come on then, let's have a chess game."

"No thanks," Harry said quickly, "I err, just remembered I have to do something. An assignment for Professor Snape, he asked me to write an essay, and I can't miss it or else he'll give me detention."

"Oh," said Percy. He said something else, but Harry didn't hear. He quickly turned away and walked back to Gryffindor tower, feeling slightly angry at Percy's audacity.

Hermione Granger greeted him from the common room, but did not say much else. She knew he needed some space, and she was willing to give it to him. She also had badgered Ron to do the same. Harry knew, and he was grateful to his friends for it. They would help him when he wanted their help, and listen when he wanted to talk.

They were good friends, Harry thought with an inward sigh and a calculating cunning.

Good friends should not have to suffer, he said to himself, and decided he did not need friends anymore, not as long as Voldemort was out there; free to target him – and those around him.

He really did have an essay to do, and he decided to do it right away even though it was due next year on the first day back. After putting his firebolt under his bed, he opened his trunk, got out his potions text book and went to the desks by the window in his dorm to study.

He wanted to get it over with and hopefully let the assignment distract him from thinking about the recent events that had transpassed. He flipped open his potions textbook to monkwood's properties, and began to take notes. His essay – assigned personally as each student got a different one – was on how to use monkwood and nightwail as the main ingredients in order to synthesize a potion for disguising your scent. Harry thought letting a three to one proportion of monkwood to nightwail would create a banana smelling tincture, which when drunk would cause the sweat glands to release a fruity banana scent. But he wasn't quite sure of the temperature he had to use or the amount of stirring – clockwise or counterclockwise? The book did not say and so he had to go right to the front, on the theory behind the stirring. This was definatley a hard essay. He wondered if he should get Hermione's help but decided against it. He did not want to talk to anyone, he just wanted to be alone and get himself together, learn how to process what had happened to him.

He still had the scar that Peter Pettigrew had given him with the knife. His blood had revived the greatest dark wizard in history. He felt guilty, and terribly afraid, but he tried to slow down his breathing, relax and concentrate on potions. He did not want fear to control him.

It was boring. But the task helped Harry clear his mind, and after a few hours of scribbling notes on parchment, he felt drowsy, so he decided to go to sleep. Looking outside, he sighed at the dark night. It was a perfect moment, with him getting a head start on his homework and after that ride in the sky all alone on his firebolt. Or at least it would have been if Voldemort was not out there, waiting, gathering his strength and his forces.

What could he do about it though, Harry thought to himself. He was just a school boy, he might try to learn a bit more and apply himself further in learning new and interesting spells. He had learnt the patronus just last year, and he had learnt the accio charm this year. Well, what if he tried learning some more powerful spells? For that he needed a teacher, someone who knew how to do powerful spells – who knew how to duel. The idea hit him instantly, Sirius Black, his godfather, would be more than happy to teach him considering the circumstances.

He grinned to himself and decided, come tomorrow morning – which was also the last day at Hogwars, he would pen a note to Sirius and have Hedwig fly there. He did not want his owl to suffer at the Dursleys.

As he drifted off to sleep, he wondered if he might try – just once – living a summer without the Dursleys. Perhaps go to the Leaky Cauldron and spend a few weeks there, eating ice cream, enjoying the sun. But he knew – with a sinking heart – that he could not just play around, because it was dangerous. Death eaters were after him, and the minimal protection that the Dursley household offered was something he sorely needed. So he resigned himself to another long summer with the Dursleys, or at least a month of it, and perhaps a month at the Black House, where Sirius currently resided.

He dreamt of a phoenix.

-------

Harry penned his letter to Sirius, explaining what had happened recently as well as his hopes that they would spend some time together. Harry really wanted to learn a few new spells that could be useful in duels and such, because with the prophecy weighing heavily on his mind he knew some day he would have to fight Voldemort, and for that he better well be prepared.

The rest of the day he spent with his friends, his only friends perhaps, Ron and Hermione. The rest of the students seemed very bright and volatile to Harry, like ticking bombs. It was only a matter of time before they leaned the truth, before they believed what Harry had said. Ron and Hermione believed him and asked him for details. He told them everything except the prophecy. They spent the day on the banks of the lake, sitting on a conjured bedsheet with a picnic basket, laughing, talking, making jokes and having fun. The summer would be a great torture for Harry. He tried to soak up as much joy as he possibly could on the last day.

The feast was memorable, the colours of which house had won was not there. In its place there was black, and more black, signifying the loss of Hogwart's champion, Cedric Diggory. Dumbledore even made a speech about it, and about Voldemort's return. Harry did not listen to it very well. He felt a buzzing sensation in his ear. It passed a few minutes later, but he thought that hearing Dumbledore speak Voldemort's name had brought it on. Was the scar acting up or something? He remembered how he could feel pain whenever Voldemort was close to him.

Could he somehow cut off that link? He did not want to feel pain, such an extreme pain it was too. Harry thought it a great disadvantage and decided to ask Dumbledore to help him.

The train ride back home was quite fun, as Harry involved himself in a game of chess against Ron. "And checkmate," exclaimed Ron happily, as he moved his king to block Harry's king's escape.

"Hmm, interesting," Harry murmured, and then chuckled, "Chess master Ron Weasley has done it again."

"Well then," Hermione said after a minute as they packed up the chess board, "What are you going to do on the summer holidays, Ron?"

"Um, probably stay at home, you know with Voldemort back and all, we're going to be pretty busy." Ron sighed, "I can't believe it, he's back you know, the worst dark lord in the history of the world. My parents told me stories about those days." He was silent for a moment. The rest of the compartment watched with awaited breath, and then Ron continued with a slow and hesitant voice as if he were afraid to say it.

"My parents thought they would die before they would see me graduate from Hogwarts."

They didn't speak much for the rest of the ride and said solemn good byes.

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AN: So what do you guys think? Review!