Disclaimer: I am not JK Rowling and I make no money off of this
Warnings: minor swearing

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Merlin was perched on a tall rock overlooking a lake enwreathed by trees. He was hunched forward, chin resting on a wooden cane he twirled with weathered fingers. To anyone who had known him, this moment of frailty would have been called uncharacteristic. Gusts of chilly night time air caressed his neck intermittently though he seemed unperturbed by the winter weather and his eyes were resting on the expanding concentric circles in the water, thinking the intangible thought of eternity. Or rather, eternities.

A phoenix rested on his shoulder, watching the man pick at strands of his wiry beard. "Death is approaching me with speed, old bird. We must discuss."

He settled more closely on Merlin's thin shoulder, not bothering to grace such a statement with a reply, and protected him from the incoming gusts of wind.

The elder man smiled mirthlessly, "What shall be done? Whom shall inherit the power after me? You know it is necessary we speak of such things, friend. They must be dealt with."

If the bird were capable of such a thing, he would've emitted a tired sigh. 'A descendant long past this time will gain the knowledge and power, thou knows of this already; thou ought not ask more.'

He latched onto the statement, "Yes, yet how will this unnamed person handle such powers? It must not run unchecked."

The phoenix ruffled his feathers, indignant. 'Do not insult the Old Magicks so much as to call the selection process undecided and random. Thou are aware that it chooses whom to grant such wisdoms- not just any common urchin of your species is going to be graced with the Magic of the Soul.'

Merlin quieted, staring unseeingly into the lake once again. Even in his moment of uncertainty there existed a wizened gleam in his eye.

The two lapsed into silence, before the bird hopped from one shoulder to his other. 'If it grants thou any relief, I promise thee that I shall make certain myself that this individual is prepared. When he comes into power, I shall impart with him thy knowledge necessary in order to respect the Old Magicks with propriety. A thousand years may pass before one manages to survive The Awakening, yet still I shall grant protection and blessings to any worthy candidate.'

The old man smiled and petted the bird's downy red plumage. "For this I shall be eternally grateful, Fawkes."

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He didn't feel his eyes open in the darkness. He didn't feel a blast of wind from the window to his left. He didn't even feel the curtains rustle against his face, or hear the sound of stifled snores, nor did he even think about the coldness of tile beneath his feet. In the very moment, the moment his regular breathing stopped and his eyes shot open, he was only a collection of sensations.

At that standstill moment in time, only three things remained. The first was the intense, damnable burning. The heat so unimaginably hot that it was as if flames licked every square inch of his skin and muscle and bone and brain, claiming it as its own, as a brother, and making him think that maybe he was now only curling ashes from a piece of parchment thrown into a fireplace. The second was the instinct. The very thing that was buried within the deepest part of his self, unchecked, now blooming to life like a flower that survived despite the fire; the thing that made his joints and muscles move with such purpose that the intensity of it's ardor rivaled that of the heat. Lastly was The Call. The singular, all encompassing thought that echoed in his head like the boom of a thunder cloud, the thought which had teased him for so many weeks, leaving him up at night, guiding him, caressing him, breathing on his neck, and wringing him like a wet towel, was finally here.

It was in these short yet arduous moments that everything disappeared in the sweltering heat of the fire within him. Identity, anger, jealousy, notions of self, and friendships were gone like the breath that sustained them. It didn't matter right now, nor did it help him, for his attention was only focused on The Awakening.

He had no sense of time, or worry, or of anything around him, yet he felt more than he ever had in his life. With only The Call to guide him, the boy sneaked past dormitories and common rooms, hallways and corridors, and winded through a maze of stairs. He didn't even think to scream at the intense, loathsome heat because such a reaction didn't exist anymore. Equipped only with the vague awareness that he was getting closer, the boy didn't differentiate between the cold tile and the snow covered ground he was trudging in, yet the moment his feet touched the untamed Forbidden Forest, the fire within him surged.

He was sprinting through tall grass and leaping over fallen trees, stumbling and hitting his face against rough bark and pine. The fire was so intense that snow within three feet of him melted instantly on contact, frying the mud beneath him and transforming the terrain into a soft mulch. The heat, the heat, the heat, the heat- every nerve in his body screamed, feeling as if they were electrical wires that had been cut, coiling and slapping against his skin like great whips of pain.

By now the flimsy glamour over his hands and arms was broken, making the magical tendrils that reached his upper arms snap back and forth, alternatively curling and springing upwards in exaltation. They danced just underneath the skin, yet longed to join the earth, the trees, the essence of freedom- undiluted, intense streams of light rocketed through the air, seeming so powerful as to slice through the very oxygen molecules themselves. It would be so simple for this old magick, the soul magics, to vaporize him into dust in the pursuit of freedom, as was in its untamable nature. Yet somehow, someway, it restrained itself, it confined itself within him, not able or not willing to slice through his skin and rejoin the earth.

He grew tired yet The Call only grew stronger and stronger, a consistency of urgency and need. It was unbearable to resist, not that he was doing so anyways, yet slowing down felt like the act of resistance itself- like heresy. He sped up, the aching in his limbs overshadowed by the heat and the desperate need for oxygen not convincing him to take a deep breath. The forest became a meaningless blur of scenery.

He tripped over rocks and evaded hills until finally he saw a circle of trees clumped together. The boy waded through the leaves with desperation and stopped, staring at the enwreathed area that may have once housed a small lake, and looked up towards the sky.

Phoenixes. Parakeet greens and lemony yellows, shades of lavender and thick butterscotch browns. They shot upwards and swung back downwards, wild and free, calling to each other. Some flew so fast that they only became a blur of color contrasting against the backdrop of black, while others flew with such caution that individual feathers could be defined. It was a dance, intricate and beautiful, but not rehearsed- emanating from their very souls, and coalescing into a great unity of purpose.

He stepped forward, breaking a branch with his foot and causing every glowing eye to direct its attention towards him. Reacting in instinct, he approached the middle of the area encircled by trees and the phoenixes circled around him, flying into one massive blur of colorlessness.

The heat, the heat, the heat... the heat returned with a vengeance, making him crumple to the ground. He twisted and turned, rubbing into the earth in an effort to stop the magic ramming against him. His arms bulged, the magical tendrils trying to rip through his skin- the strain was too much, his core was too small, and the old magicks too wild. The Call disappeared, sinking itself into the earth beneath him because he was already where he needed to be, and his vocal cords worked again, making him wretch and scream in sheer, mind numbing pain.

It was going to rip him apart so thoroughly his flesh was turned into little more than dust. It was going to tear at the fabric of his soul in an effort to disentangle itself and he would be no more. He screeched, burning, wondering if Aunt Petunia was right and he was in Hell.

Suddenly the orbs in his palms forcibly detached, yet didn't rip his hands open, and they formed a singular bright mass floating just above his reach. With his last bit of strength, the boy pushed himself up in a sitting position and, feeling the urge to grasp it as it lowered itself towards his chest, had placed both hands into the condensed ball of light.

Immediately a flood washed over him, or at least what he thought was a flood, because it was cold. Glorious, refreshing, breathable and the most welcome sensation on earth: COLD. It washed over his veins and nerves, eagerly sucking the heat from his flesh and making the fire only a distant memory.

His shoulders drooped, relaxing under the quelling flood that filled him like a pitcher of water. The orb then flowed back into his hands and arms, branding his skin with-no, such a phrase was too much like heat- creating silver bands that twisted delicately over the surface of his arm and twined itself in Celtic knots. It stopped at his upper arm and now, for the first time in months, his hands no longer ached. His magic was quiet. His magic was his. His magic was the purest, most original, rare and volatile of all magics- it was Old Magicks. And it was his.

Black dots expanded over his vision, and the darkness claimed him.

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Neville sighed, opening the boy's curtains and shaking his shoulder. "Come on, it's time to wake up."

"Mmmmhm." Ron buried himself deeper into the pillow, lifting a hand into the air and trying to grapple at the curtain in order to stop the flood of light.

"Class starts in thirty minutes, breakfast is almost over." the boy warned.

Ron looked at him in annoyance, eyebrow twitching upwards as he sat up and accepted defeat. "Where's Harry? He's already in the Great Hall?" He rubbed his eyes and yawned.

"I think so, he isn't here. You'd think he'd learn how to make his bed, though," He jabbed a finger over at the sheets strewn across the floor.

The other boy looked at Neville, rolling his eyes. "You're such a girl."

He adamantly denied this and blushed, staring at his shuffling feet while Ron got ready and the two went off to the Great Hall. Hermione later joined them, picking up a stack of books.

The girl peered around, hugging her heavy tomes more tightly to her chest. "Where's..."

"Great Hall, probably. We didn't see him in the dorms."

Hermione nibbled her lip. "Alright, you don't think he's still embarrassed about the phoenixes yesterday, right? You know how he doesn't like attention."

Ron felt a jealous growl rise out of his throat, but suppressed it. "It was bloody hilarious, Mione. He's fine."

The girl didn't comment and the three walked off to grab a quick breakfast. Once they arrived, they were baffled when they couldn't find Harry sitting at the Gryffindor Table.

Hermione tensed, yet Neville clapped a consoling hand on her shoulder. "Hey, he probably just got an early breakfast and went to class."

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Soothing warm liquid dropped intermittently all over his skin, though he wasn't awake enough to feel this.

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"Where is he?" she hissed, grasping her quills with sweaty fingers and plopping them onto the table. "I have a bad feeling about this."

"He'll be here, maybe he was studying in the library and lost track of time..." Neville trailed off, shying away at the intense expression on the girl's face.

Ron leaned up from behind the two, "This is Potions class, Snape hates him; he'd sooner die than be late here," he added.

"If we don't see him by lunch, we'll go see Dumbledore or something. There's no need to jump to conclusions," the other boy interrupted.

Snape glared at the three, wondering what they were plotting now.

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Something chirped in his ear, nudging him.

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"Sugar beans." Snape hissed at the gargoyle statue, mouth crumpling in disgust that he had let such words pass his mouth. It slid aside, and the man, with three very worried Gryffindors, entered the Headmaster's office.

He was sure it was nothing. The brat was fine, just feeling adventurous and traipsing outside. He was fine, he had to be.

"Severus! What a pleasant surprise, you never visit!" Dumbledore chuckled, before seeing three concerned students enter the room behind him.

Hermione paced nervously. "Sir, we haven't seen Harry at all! He wasn't in the dorms or the Great Hall or even any of his classes and we're worried."

The man nodded gravely, throwing floo powder into his fire place and popping his head inside. "Madam Pomphrey?"

The four could hear an echo. "Yes, sir?"

Dumbledore tapped his foot. "Is Harry Potter with you at this moment?"

"No, should he be?"

Immediately the Headmaster pulled his head out of the green flames. Snape let an angry, guttural noise arise from his throat, and stepped curtly out of the room.

He was going to throttle that damned brat when he found him.

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oh hohoho, hope you liked this chapter. I would love it if you would review for me, that would make my day!

Also, a note or two:
1. I don't know Old English, so forgivith me for making Merlin speak more modern than he should've been speaking. I wanted it to feel real, yet I didn't want to jargon-ize the dialogue either, so it was sort of a struggle. If I made mistakes (which I am certain I did) than I'm sorry.
2. Next chapter is really when you'll be finding out more about everything, so brace yourselves.