I, as many before me, have concluded that Spock would not enjoy the magical world, for those who dwell within are highly illogical beings. I mean, who wastes an entire school year plotting to kidnap one teenage boy when he could have been nabbed, oh, I don't know, maybe at the end of his first DADA class? (Potter, stay behind. Dumbledore wants me to show you something.) The bad guy actually taught Harry how to fight off the Imperious Curse, for heaven's sake. That right there, my friends, is a "special" kind of evil.

WARNING – EXCESSIVE USE OF COMMAS. BUT REALLY, I NEEDED THEM TO BREAK UP THE RUN-ON SENTENCES. VOLDEMORT MADE ME DO IT. BAD GRAMMAR, AN EVIL ALL ITS OWN.

Setting: Well, it's summer. And an older and wiser Harry is enduring his own personal hell, which, contrary to what some fanfiction would have you believe, is not the literal hell. Just a boring house in Surrey. And he's been feeling ill. You should probably know that.

Chapter Title: What's the word I'm looking for?

PART 1

'Well,' thought Harry, 'this is different.'

And it was. Why, only this morning he'd been a perfectly normal boy – if by normal, one means a wizard of unusual power marked for death by another wizard of equal yet differently applied unusual power; one who suffers from a massive hero complex, a bit of survivor's guilt, and a dose of good old-fashioned, hormonally-charged teenage angst (and trust me, one does) – and now … well now he was a bird.

'And yet, it makes perfect sense. I should have expected something like this. Honestly, what potion calls for beating in six eggs and spreading the mixture into a well-greased glass pan? Have I learned nothing from watching Ron? Hand-me-down books from the twins are not to be trusted! Clearly a page of Possibly Potent Potions was switched with one from Mrs. Bakers Baking for Beginners. And I believe I measured the temperature in Fahrenheit instead of Celsius, which was an odd mistake given my proper British upbringing. The resulting soufflé obviously reacted to the phoenix tears that have been lying dormant in my blood all these years, thus triggering this unprecedented transformation.'

But not just any bird. Nothing ordinary or mundane like a canary or a crow or even an owl, which at first glance sounds kind of cool (finding people and delivering mail and all) but actually is just a lot of work; no, Harry had become a phoenix. It is a little known fact that the phoenix, much like their friends the Borg, share a collective intelligence. They also share their desire to assimilate inferior species, but lacking opposable thumbs have sadly been unable to do much to achieve such a goal.

Yet thanks to this very convenient fact, Harry found himself suddenly aware of all the information held by all living phoenix. All four of them. There used to be five, but after being eaten twice by dragons (one of the flying variety and one of the komodo variety), eaten by a shark, eaten by a pack of wild wildebeest, and last but not least misidentified and eaten in the great Thanksgiving Reenactment of 1972, Floyd decided he'd had enough and joined the great Phoenix Fire in the Sky.

It was this Collective that gave Harry the ability to identify exactly how his home-made healing potion had gone wrong. It also allowed him to cuss in fifteen languages, six of them no longer spoken, when he realized he would be stuck this way until his health had deteriorated enough to trigger a burning day as he no longer had the ability to brew. Another ability lost due to lack of opposable thumbs. It could take days if not weeks. The thought of that much bird seed made his stomach churn.

Feeling himself slipping into depression, he warbled a few notes that sounded suspiciously like 'Girls Just Wanna Have Fun', instantly calming down. Maybe a nap would put things into a new perspective – if he could figure out how to put on his pajamas.

He had just decided to sleep au naturel when Dudley crashed into the room, hair dripping wet, towel loosely wrapped around his waist, shouting out, "they just wanna, they just wan-a-a-aa".

Phoenix-Harry simultaneously molted and flashed away to safety. Or at least, that was the plan. The flashing away, not the molting. It's quite certain that was by accident. But he hadn't an actual destination in mind, which Hermione could have told him was a rather important detail to overlook (probably quoting 2 books as she did so). So when he looked around and found himself standing on an elegant dining table – a table surrounded by men wearing unflattering black robes – he knew the plan had gone awry.

PART 2

At this point, I must beg your indulgence as I take a moment to describe the dining room in which our beloved bird boy has found himself. While I'm certain you have a general idea – table, chairs, and the like – it's most likely that your imagination is nothing like mine (unless we share the same psychiatrist, which I highly doubt as I'd have remembered reading your file) and, therefore, you're imagining things like green silk drapes and glittering chandeliers, and that's just not right.

Imagine this – the walls were a moldy yellowish color, the windows were hidden behind two-tone purple velvet drapes that reminded everyone of a certain headmaster's robes, there were several poorly built tables bearing the IKEA logo pushed against the walls that appeared to serve no purpose whatsoever, and hanging throughout the room were landscapes that were more likely to have been painted by eight year olds than Masters. The aforementioned elegant dining table – quite possibly the only tasteful thing in the entire room – dominated the space. It was made of a sturdy dark wood, was more accurately called an oval than a rectangle, and was of such length that one sitting at the head of the table would have a hard time keeping a close watch on those sitting near the foot of the table. Over time bored guests had left their mark in the form of names, words, and even some questionable doodles carved into the wood of that far end.

But really, it's the people around the table that are most import here. Harry's immediate assumption that the table was surrounded by men was not quite accurate, as his Phoenix-enhanced sense of smell picked out the random women added to the mix. Not that it mattered at the moment; he just didn't want anyone to think him sexist. Taking advantage of the fact that the rest of the room was shocked still by his appearance, he swiveled his head to the left checking out the group. After all, he'd never really studied a Death Eater in full uniform, as normally when he was this close to them there was hexing and cursing and running involved. Craning his neck toward one particular minion, he suddenly let out a very strange noise, something between a chirp and a hiccup, as he noticed for the first time that what he'd always thought of as 'loose fitting to allow for fighting' were actually just old maternity robes. (The Madam Malkin's Motherly Muumuus label was a rather large clue.)

The assembled group of the fashion-challenged flinched at the noise, but otherwise appeared lifeless as they continued to stare at their newest arrival. Harry, in turn, continued his study of them. In doing so he noticed he'd been mistaken in another way; there were in fact three people not dressed in those horridly familiar black robes. Narcissa Malfoy, hair and makeup done as if she were heading to dinner and a show rather than attending a meeting, was actually wearing robes of royal blue. A man that Harry presumed was Gregory Goyle's father was still wearing his work robes, tattered grey things with bits of hay sticking to them in random places. And of course, the master of the room, Tom Riddle himself, standing at the head of the table in robes that appeared to be a perfect blending of black, grey, and deepest purple so that they looked black at first glance, but when he moved the color seemed to come alive. It was an impressive trick, Harry thought. Very Dark Lordish.

It was he, Voldemort the First, who finally recovered. He straightened himself, pointing at Harry with his wand, and was about to speak when the door to the room swung open and Lucius Malfoy strode into the room. At least, Harry thought it was Malfoy. The man in question certainly moved like Malfoy, but … well … those were not maternity robes he was wearing. If there was anything that was completely opposite traditional death eater robes, that's what he was wearing. To begin with, while the clothes looked to be from another century, there was no robe to be found. So old fashioned, yes, but also very Muggle. And then it clicked in Harry's mind – Malfoy was wearing a Redcoat uniform straight out of Harry's old muggle history book. Complete with knee-high leather boots, hip sword, and feather-topped hat. And dang, but he looked good, and this was coming from a comfortably heterosexual birdman. It was quite the conundrum.

"Late again, Lucius?" his Lord and Master asked in that falsely kind voice.

"Apologies, my Lord. I'm afraid my newest house elf, Tavington, gets a bit confused between my super-secret-terror-time uniform and my late-night-play-time uniform."

"You call that a uniform," mouthed off Goyle, who had apparently forgotten his own farm-fresh ensemble.

"I call it a wardrobe malfunction," Lucius smoothly replied with enough cool disregard that those nearby actually shivered.

"I'll give you a wardrobe malfunction," new recruit Dolores Umbridge shouted as she jumped up from her seat and ripped her robes open, her bare breasts flopping out. Cries of "Merlin no", "put those things away", "uppity colonist", and "forgive me father for I have sinned" filled the room before Voldemort restored the calm with two simple words and a flash of green.

"Nagini, lunch," he called; but his faithful snake took one taste with her tongue and shook her head most adamantly before turning and slithering out as quickly as she could. With one last look at his retreating familiar, Voldemort discreetly kicked the dead body beneath a nearby side table, causing the table to collapse and allowing Lucius time to find a seat and get filled in on what he'd missed.

Harry, meanwhile, was having a hard time grasping his quickly evolving life, having gone from being a home-boy to hearing his naked cousin sing to Malfoy-in-the-Park to The Thing from the Pink Lagoon in the span of about 10 minutes, and he summed up his feelings in a most manly whimper.

All eyes turned to him as Voldemort spoke. "Narcissa, I believe one of your peacocks is ill."

Harry gave an indignant caw before remembering that, (one) Voldemort was partially correct as it was the very fact that Harry was not in prime health that had led to him making his ill-fated elixir and, (two) he was now a bird, not a human. But surely, he thought, this man of seeming intellect could see the difference between a phoenix and a peacock? Harry craned his neck forward and swiveled it around, taking in all the faces looking back at him with looks of, dare he think it, curiosity with a touch of humor. Where was the awe? The respect for his majestic species? And why was the room suspiciously drafty despite the windows being closed? Suddenly looking back on himself, he noticed nearly a third of his feathers (which were primarily green, not red, and wasn't that a hoot) were missing, and those that weren't were drooping to the table. With an inward sigh, he conceded he did resemble a plucked duck more than Fawkes at this point.

"That is not a peacock, my Lord," one of the unnamed background characters had the courage to say. "I believe it is a phoenix."

"Dumbledore's phoenix?!," another shouted, clearly wanting to be in the foreground. "He probably sent the thing here to spy on us. We should kill it."

"Do not fire until you see the whites of its eyes," Malfoy helpfully pointed out.

"KILL IT!" Bellatix Lestrange squealed in much the same voice Dudley used to exclaim "there's more cake". She had already sprung from her chair, wand drawn, and was doing some type of river dance, or possibly Native American rain dance, or it could have been a game of hopscotch; whichever it was it was very lively and with her wand clutched in her hand she was lucky she hadn't lost an eye yet. Or a buttock, as Moody could attest.

"Bella," Tom said in a bored voice, "we agreed there were to be no more pre-killing celebrations." Bella immediately stopped busting her moves, her wand very fluidly finding its target. "Nor will you be killing this majestic creature until we determine why it is here."

"Uhhhgh, I never get to have any fun!" With a stomp so forceful it actually broke off the heel of her boot, she threw her wand to the floor and stormed from the room as quickly as her uneven gait would allow. It was a tight squeeze at the door, for just as she was leaving Severus Snape was arriving, causing them both to catch for a split second. Harry-bird wasn't the only one trying not to laugh at the sight.

Once freed from the doorway, Snape strode forward, managing to make a strange part-bow, part-kneel move that looked like he was trying to touch his knee with his forehead, without breaking his stride. It rather reminded several watching of a certain Monty Python skit, not that they could admit to having seen such a thing.

Snape approached his master, who had turned his back to the table to watch the potion maker's arrival. "My Lord," said arrival called, stopping a few feet before the man and the table, "I bring news. Potter is … what is … is that a phoenix?"

'Brilliant deduction, Professor. Five points to Slytherin. It would have been more, but I expected you to pick up on the subtle differences between myself and your average phoenix.' As if to prove his point, Harry stood a bit straighter, his head high and his tail feathers (those he still had) fanning behind him.

Snape took notice of the phoenix. Harry stared back. Snape narrowed his eyes. Harry blinked and cocked his head to the side. Snape arched his left eyebrow. Harry tapped a claw on the table. Snape scratched his nose. Harry wiggled his tail feathers. Snape cleared his throat several times in what sounded like the tune 'shave and a haircut'. Harry warbled 'two bits', though no one in the room understood the majestic language he used.

"Potter?" Snape sputtered.

"Yes," Voldemort easily cut in, having not understood what was happening between man and bird, "you mentioned the boy when you arrived. Late. Because apparently you have news?"

"It's Potter," Snape announced, pointing to the bird – a bird that was now looking behind himself as if to see if there was, perhaps, some other Potter in the room that he hadn't noticed.

"Yes, yes, Potter. We've established you have news about him. Perhaps you would like to consider giving me this news before I decide to give you a little something?" Voldemort said this as he softly stroked his wand, missing both Snape's dropping jaw and the phoenix that was slowly shuffling toward the edge of the table.

"No, my Lord … I mean … the bird, my Lord, don't you think its markings are a bit … familiar?"

At that, all eyes turned back to Harry, who had made it as far as Bellatrix's empty seat and had one leg extended to hop down to it. Suddenly finding himself the center of attention, but without a wand, he slowly retracted his leg and hunched down so he was sitting on the table with his head tucked low.

"I told you it was Dumbledore's pet," shouted the same random Death Eater from earlier, earning himself a Cruciatus from his lord and a smack to the back of his head from his life partner.

"Fawkes has red feathers, not green," Snape corrected in his teacher voice, causing more than one Death Eater to unconsciously straighten in their chair. "Green, like a certain boy's eyes, don't you think?"

"I've always favored Slytherin green, myself," one of the Carrows commented, batting his or possibly her eyes at Snape in a flirty manner.

"What exactly is the difference between Slytherin green and emerald green?," the other Carrow wondered aloud. "I've never been able to tell. I mean, Slytherin green isn't even an official color is it? It's not included in a box of assorted toddler inks?"

"Your news," the Dark Lord hissed in his calmest, and therefor deadliest, voice before the conversation could get any further off track.

"Potter is missing, My Lord," Snape managed to get out, glancing at the bird. "According to Dumbledore there was no sign of a struggle. His things were left behind, even his wand. In fact, the only thing that appeared out of place, aside from an obvious attempt at a potion that was clearly beyond is elementary abilities, was what appeared to be the tail feathers of a large bird." Snape glared at the bird on the table, who had stealthily resumed its careful climb from table to chair. "Green feathers," he barked, his eyes narrowing as the bird noticeably gulped (an odd thing to see to be sure) and lost its balance.

Harry squawked as he tumbled onto the empty chair, briefly disappearing from sight to all except the two sitting on either side of the chair. For a second the room as silent as all eyes turned to the chair. Then a slightly dazed bird popped its head above the table top, earning an "aww" from the women in the room.

"Is it not strange," Snape asked, trying to get his lord to understand what he was trying to say without having to actually say it. The Dark Lord tended to torture those that pointed out the obvious – especially when he himself had missed it.

"Strange indeed, Snape," Tom said in a somewhat dismissive tone as he watched the phoenix, which seemed to be settling into the chair for the moment almost as if it was resigned to its fate. "A great mystery, to be certain. One that will get my full attention soon enough. Much like the mystery of our friend here," he added, pointing to said phoenix.

And then a strange thing happened. Tom smiled; and it wasn't nearly as creepy as most had assumed it would be. "To have a phoenix join our side is a boon! For years I've had to listen to people whisper – oh yes, I've heard them – that Lord Voldemort has only a snake while the great and powerful Dumbledore has a majestic phoenix. And yes, he talks to his bird, but can he understand when it talks back? NO! It's really just an old man yammering to himself, but does anyone call him on it? NO! Nagini and I have real, intelligent conversations. She understand me. She completes me!"

For the next minute and a half, every human in the room pretended they were deaf. The lone phoenix shed a tear as he contemplated the rather sad existence Nagini must live. Unfortunately, the Death Eater seated to his left, one Rabastan Lestrange, had been reaching across to snag the last slice of pizza and the tear landed on his exposed left arm. The drop hit the dark mark, instantly hissing and sizziling, causing the man to let out a loud "eeep". When the steam and noise had died down, the dark mark was gone from his arm.

The Dark Lord took one look at the blank arm and sighed, sounding quite put upon. "I am sorry, Bass, but you know the rules. Only marked followers are allowed at these meetings – or spouses or lovers or, on occasion, interns, apprentices and torture victims—but you are none of these, so I am afraid you must go." He sternly pointed to the open door to emphasize his point.

The man, one of his most loyal followers up to this point, very sulkily left the room.

"Don't forget to turn in your golden key on your way out. You no longer have master loo privileges," the Dark Lord cheerfully called to the retreated man. He did so love to add insult to injury. Around the table, the other Death Eaters quietly placed bets on why the last remaining Lestrange would be kicked out of the room. Caught humming "Circle of Life" again was the 3:1 favorite. Everyone knew their lord was a Little Mermaid man.

Having signaled his bet to Narcissa (drinking the Dark Lord's Magical Fizz-lixer, known to Muggles as Coca-Cola), Snape tried one last time to get his point across. "My Lord, I wonder if perhaps you've noticed that odd marking on the phoenix's head."

Harry-bird racked his brain – and those of the rest of the Collective – but could find no proof that he could, in fact, shoot the killing curse at someone from his eyes. Knowing it was a long shot, he tried anyway.

Sadly, Snape was completely unaffected, and continued on. "Look closely. It looks like a jagged line from here."

The Death Eater remaining next to Harry examined the bird as best he could, considering Harry was trying his best to hide his head without looking like he was hiding his head. "I see it," he exclaimed, happy to have solved the mystery. "It looks like the letter Z."

"You're looking at it sideways," Snape droned.

"Oh, it's like a bolt of lightning," Narcissa pronounced, having moved closer.

"Kinda like that Potter kid's scar," questioned the same stupid Death Eater that couldn't keep his mouth shut earlier.

"No, his is more of a lightning bolt," Narcissa counter.

Harry, meanwhile, was now openly attempting to hunch over and tuck his head under a wing, but Voldemort suddenly shouting "EVERYONE STAY" had him practically frozen in his spot.

Riddle strolled over, taking Harry's head rather firmly so he could examine the spot. He 'hmmmed' and 'ahhhed' several times before letting go of the bird and standing up straight. "You are most correct Severus, it is very reminiscent of the Potter brat's scar. This phoenix must have come to us as an omen – a sign that soon, very soon I should think, the boy will be mine! A most extraordinary turn of events!"

"An omen? Surely you realize –"

"Which of us has the NEWT in Divination, Snape?," Tom hissed a bit testily. He never had learned how to play well with others. "I believe I know an omen when I see one. Surely, you aren't questioning your lord and master?" He pulled his wand and sent a sharp stinging hex at the potions professor, as if that somehow would prove his point.

Hardly anyone in the room noticed Snape's plight, however, for at that very moment the room was filled with the most wonderous sound. It was a joyous melody; a merry little ditty, kinda like Pop Goes the Weasel or the Hampster Dance, that just instantly puts a smile on ones face. It was completely at odds with the normal tone of a Death Eater meeting, but no one minded. Each one present was suddenly feeling happy and carefree, many for the first time in recent memory (or at least since their lord's rebirth, it was hard to pinpoint).

Only Snape's trained ear, and his only because he'd spent so much time around Fawkes, recognized the sound for what it was – phoenix laughter. The fact that it occurred as he has being hexed was not lost on him. Internally, he cursed the boy he knew was masquerading as a bird until, with remarkable insight, he made the connection. Of course! The boy's scar was a direct link to the Dark Lord; though normally his emotions brought the brat pain, not joy. But perhaps a phoenix, being a being of – and here he vomited a bit into his mouth – light and goodness, that strange connection was somehow being twisted arse backwards.

Snape came out of his musings when he heard a sound that literally turned his blood to ice. Literally; he could feel the tiny chunks clogging up his arteries and everything. It was the sound of the Dark Lord … his Dark Lord … the man that took lack of human emotion to Olympic levels … chuckling.

"Who's a good boy?" the noseless man actually cooed, as he (and again, Snape felt the vomit bubbling up as he took in this sight) scratched the phoenix on top of its head. "Are you my good boy? Oh, I can't wait to introduce you to Nagini! We'll all be such friends."

Apparently, phoenix song had an enhanced effect on the insane. Ladies and gentlemen, exhibit A: "I think I'll call you Henry. 'Tis a grand name for such a grand creature. Many great and powerful wizards have borne the name over the centuries. It has such a regal sound to it …. Henrrrrry … don't you all agree?" He swept his arm around the room, inviting his followers to respond.

For several seconds, no one made a sound, not even Harry – or as we now know him, Henry. Then one, then two, then practically all were shouting their agreement that the name was grand, the bird was indeed a good bird, and (for some unknown reason) that chicken tasted nasty.

That clinched it for Snape. Taking advantage of Tom's new level of insanity, he cleared his throat, drawing said psycho's attention away from Henry. "You'll have to pardon me, my Lord. I just remembered I left a student boiling – I mean, I left a student with a boiling potion, yes that's it, a boiling, highly volatile potion. I really must go check on it-him. It will probably take a few hours, so you shouldn't be concerned if I don't return for a while. I'll just be back in my dungeon hideaway with a student and his highly volatile potion, and not running to the eye-twinkling, lemon sherbert-eating, Gandolf wanna-be to beg forgiveness and pledge undying loyalty. Must be running …"

"You know, it's an ugly business doing one's duty... but just occasionally it's a real pleasure," Malfoy cheerfully told the room, before stopping with a confused look on his face when he realized he had no idea why he'd said that. Clearing his throat, he fiddled with his chin-strap.

As the door slammed shut behind the retreating Potions Master, Riddle explained to Henry how refreshing it was to see Severus care so for the wellbeing of his students, seeing as the man normally ranted about wanting to kill them all instead. Around him, his remaining Death Eaters and one very amused phoenix rolled their eyes. Finally, our simple minded, open-mouthed Death Eater spoke up. "Ah, my Lord … ," but then he hesitated, realizing even he was not that stupid. "Er, never mind."

PART 3

"I don't think you understand, Headmaster," Snape said in a tired voice, having explained it already multiple times.

"Oh, I believe I do," was the all-to-cheery reply. "A phoenix has befriended Tom Riddle. Simply extraordinary. I didn't think the old boy had it in him to befriend anything, let alone a creature so light and wholesome."

"But … it's not really a phoenix! It's Potter!"

"Oh, I seriously doubt that, Severus," Albus Dumbledore said, waving his hand as if to wave aside all of Severus' concerns. "I happen to have it on good authority that Harry's animagus form is an Indian Grey Mongoose – they are snake killers, did you know? Rather poetic, I believe."

Snape paused for barely a moment, deciding he didn't want to question what fairytale Dumbledore had been reading when he'd come up with this particular theory. The Headmaster's "good authority", after all, could be anything from first-hand knowledge to reading it in tea leaves to a peculiarly worded clue in the daily crossword. Instead, he focused on what he knew to be fact. "I was under the impression that the mongoose, while it is indeed capable of killing a cobra, is more likely to avoid it all together."

"But they can kill the snake, that's the important part. Put the snake in front of them, and they'll do what they must. Mark my words, Severus. The mongoose will always get the snake in the end."

Realizing they were very off topic, and likely to continue in that direction if he didn't do something, Severus cleared his throat and as a feeling of déjà vu settled in, tried one more time to explain: "Regardless, I was not implying Potter was even remotely capable of the animagus transformation. A quick analysis of the potion Potter was attempting, factoring in his hap-hazard inclusion of unnecessary ingredients and quite honestly baffling decision to measure temperature in Fahrenheit instead of Celsius – "

"Fahrenheit? But we're British!"

"Which is why I called it baffling! Now, as I was saying, an analysis of the potion leads me to believe that there was a magical reaction between the potion and the dormant phoenix tears in the boy's blood, triggering an unconscious, uncontrollable transformation from human to bird-brain."

Albus was quiet for several minutes as he considered Snape's argument. "It's quite a stretch, Severus," he finally determined. "I know you think potions are the bee's knees, but I find myself hard pressed to believe this particular theory of yours. I've always been more of an Alchemy fellow myself. Golden rule after all … he who makes the gold …"

"The bird has green feathers! And the lightening bolt scar!"

"I thought you said Narcissa called it more of a bolt of lightening?"

Snape closed his eyes and took a deep breath, whispering to himself, "must not punch old man again … must not punch old man again."

"Albus, put all of that aside. Just focus on this – Harry Potter suddenly disappeared this afternoon, leaving bird feathers behind. A phoenix suddenly appeared in the Dark Lord's presence this afternoon, missing several of its feathers. Does this coincidence not seem at all strange to you?"

"Hmmm, certainly … certainly. Coincidence is often a strange fellow. Why I recall, back in young Mister Potter's first year, being summoned to the Ministry quite urgently the very same evening that Voldemort decided to make his move for the Philosopher's Stone. Oh ho," he chuckled, "how differently that night would have ended if but I had remained; but alas, I had left." He paused, making Severus think he was done, when suddenly he clapped his hands together and shouted, "COINCIDENCE, thou art strange indeed!"

Done speaking, the Headmaster picked through his candy dish for a particularity tasty looking treat. He even held his chosen one up to the light checking it over with a critical eye before he popped it into his mouth and, now humming what could only be Flight of the Bumblebee, picked up his favorite quill and went back to work as if the conversation was over.

Snape stared at the Headmaster for a full minute – the man seemed perfectly happy to doodle what appeared to be a string of "GG – AD – GG – AD" along the bottom of what was an otherwise important document – before finally muttering "enough is enough … even Lily isn't worth this." Without another word, he turned and left the office.

With magic, packing his belongings into a couple of trunks was child's play (if their parents were inattentive nitwits – but that was no longer his concern!). In the back of his mind, he'd always presumed he'd die in this war, what with being stuck between two trained buffoons and tricked into playing savior to a savior with the preservation skills of a gerbil playing in a viper pit. But, he'd always hoped. Oh yes, on lonely nights (meaning, every night) he would dream, scheme, and steam – though the latter was mostly to clear his pores – on the off chance he would one day have the chance to LIVE, capital letters and all. Well he was done waiting and all that dreaming and scheming was about to pay off! (The steaming, not so much, but perhaps if he added a bit of soap?)

Now, it must be said, for those who do not truly understand, Severus Snape is not a nice man. He doesn't teach brail to the blind, he doesn't volunteer at the soup kitchen on Sunday, and he certainly doesn't use his gruff exterior to hide his heart of gold – and you can be assured if he did have any such thing he'd have bartered it off long ago. He might work for the good side, but he is by no means a good man. So let's be honest, this grand scheme of his to flee the country and the war, it simply can't be "on the up and up" if you catch my drift. Hammer's problem of being "to legit to quit"? Snape ain't got that problem. Taking the high road? He couldn't find it with a map and a GPS. Are you picking up what I'm putting down? Alright then, let's continue.

With his last trunk packed, Snape retrieved his last, best item. A black nylon duffle bag from the farthest corner of the bathroom cupboard. It had the Nike logo across the front. Just do it: more than a catchphrase. Inside were all the Muggle papers he would need to establish his new life; keys to a storage locker in Glasgow full of trendy Muggle clothes, $8,872 American dollars and several assorted other currencies; and 8 boxes of Canary Cremes (tasty and addictive! – damn those Weasley twins). And luckily, given the higher than average odds he would eventually end up shoving a handful of lemon drops down a certain person's throat until they'd chocked on them and he'd have to flee the law, he'd used his summers to keep up with Muggle technology, too. He could drive a car, use a phone, and hack the occasional top secret military installation with the best of them.

Of all his dreamed-up schemes, he mentally picked the one he felt would give him the highest chance of netting himself millions of dollars, and therefore the happiest life. His first step (after escaping the country, of course) would be finding and training some worthwhile minions of his very own. He would make the Best. Leader. Ever. He'd been watching Dumbledore and Riddle for over a decade; he'd learned from all their mistakes. To begin with, no working with kids. And also, no going after kids. Just no kids. Period. And honestly, being a ringleader had to be a piece of cake compared to being Head of Slytherin. Which reminded him – no kids meant no more dealing with puberty! Setting his Nike bag aside, he took a few minutes to do his happy dance. If only he hadn't packed his clogs already, it would have been perfect; those lessons had really paid off.

A few hours later found a man of about Snape's height and weight purchasing the first of many airline tickets. Unlike the former Potions Professor, this man had short, well-kept brunet hair with a matching beard, and spoke with a slight German accent. Clutched tightly in his left hand were two books. If anyone nearby had looked inside the first, an ordinary notebook, they would have seen a list of names … 'possible minions' the list was headed … and a second list, this one titled 'marks – high to low profitablity'. They wouldn't really see it, of course, because of all the hexes and jinxes on the notebook. Magic was a wunderbar thing. The second book wouldn't interest them at all, as it was just a boring annual stockholder's report for Nakatomi Corporation.

PART 4

Hermione looked at Ron as he leaned against her kitchen counter, looked up toward the heavens in silent prayer, then looked back again. Nope, he was still standing there wringing his hands, red-faced and almost – almost – in tears. Either he was making a very poor attempt at a prank or he was genuinely an idiot. She couldn't decide which she preferred.

"You're telling me you really have no idea where Harry is?"

"He disappeared, Hermione! No one knows where he is. The only thing we have going for us is that You Know Who is so obsessed with his new phoenix that he's not bothering to look for Harry. At least Snape confirmed that for us all before he up and disappeared too … say … you don't think Snape had anything to do with Harry going missing, do you?"

Trying valiantly to hold in a heavy sigh – she failed, but no one called her on it – she lightly brushed the green feather she was holding. It was one of several that had been found in Harry's bedroom the day he'd disappeared. She wondered briefly if it would help if she explained, again, how to play connect-the-dots. Instead, she turned her attention to Tonks the Auror. "And you?"

"We know he was there – his family heard him moaning and complaining about being ill – and no one saw him leave. Doge and Jones think the feathers and messy cauldron indicate an intricate dark ritual is in play, but they have no common sense."

That part, at least, Hermione could agree with. Unfortunately, the perky blue-haired girl continued. "I mean, look at the evidence. He's just not good enough to be attempting potions on his own, everyone knows that. So he's trying something he shouldn't, the magic gets away from him, and he can't afford to get busted again so he just slipped out under that cloak of his. But it's only a matter of time before He Who Something-Something notices and starts looking for him." At Hermione's incredulous look, she added, "Even you have to admit it was very irresponsible of him to leave his relatives' home. Especially without his wand!"

Intellectually, Hermione knew that knocking sense into people was just an expression, but right now she was seriously thinking of giving it a try. The frying pan was dangerously close. Instead, she turned her attention to the last magical person standing in her parents' kitchen. Being a very small kitchen, it was a bit crowded, but that's not really important right now.

"Now don't look at me that way," Kingsley chided as he calmly slipped around the table and therefore out of arm's reach. As a top-notch Auror he knew homicidal rage when he saw it and your average Death Eater had nothing on this school girl. "I watched Severus' conversation with Albus in his pensieve," he added as he decided to shift one more step back, even if that did mean the handles of the ice box were digging into his back. "And every Auror knows Rule 39. There's no such thing as a coincidence."

"But—" Tonks tried to cut in, her hair an excitable green.

"Rule 39, Tonks! One of Moody's favorites. Right up there with Rule 35 – always watch the watchers – but not quite as important as Rule 23." He cracked his knuckles menacingly, and if possible his voice got deeper. "NEVER mess with an Auror's coffee if you want to live."

"But—" she tried again, her hair turning a lovely and quite normal shade of brown.

"Thirty. Nine." Kingsley ground out. With a huff Tonks looked down, giving her head the slightest of nods. (Ron, in case you were wondering, was making himself a butter sandwich.)

Excited, Hermione prompted, "So you agree …"

"Absolutely," he replied with a firm nod of his head, "Potter needs rescued and if these arse-wipes won't act, we must."

"And if I find out that he's plotting without me again, I'm going to be introducing him to my good friends, Dick and Les." She pounded the nearby loaf of bread flat with a single swat for emphasis. "He knows my secret ambition is to be the evil mastermind to his charismatic cult leader."

Kingsley could only stand there and blink while beside him Tonks was nodding along because, really, that had always been rather obvious to her.

Hidden on top of the refrigerator, Henry the Phoenix (who had figured out how to become invisible without a cloak on his second day – take that Dumbledore!) gulped and flashed back to Tom's study, where four other phoenix were standing over a map of the country. One of them (known to many as Fawkes but to his brethren as Skippy) was pushing toy army men toward what appeared to be a castle sculpted out of meatloaf and celery stalks.

Henry cleared his throat and warbled, "Hermione is going to be an even bigger problem than we thought. World domination might have to be delayed. Again."

END

DISCLAIMER

The idea for this chapter is lifted directly from a fanfiction I began to read. In it, Harry was turned into a phoenix and somehow ended up with Riddle and NO ONE PUT THOSE TWO EVENTS TOGETHER, despite them occurring at the exact same time. I would give credit for the idea to that author except (1) it was such a badly plotted story I quickly left it, never giving its name nor that of its author another thought; and (2) I don't want to encourage that sort of behavior.

The wizarding world's lack of logic and common sense is, in one word, evil. How can you hear there are bars on a child's bedroom window and he's fed through a cat-flap and not think there is something wrong? Molly, I love ya, but if you're not secretly evil, you're an idiot.