A/N: As I'm updating this on July 30th: Happy Birthday Neville/Harry/J.K. Rowling!

In celebration of Harry's birthday, here's a chapter partly from his point of view. But don't get too excited, wonderful readers. Harry's like, super insane. This chaotic chapter might also make you go a bit crazy.

"'I think we can agree that you are not dead—though, of course," he added, as if fearing he had been discourteous, "I do not minimise your sufferings, which I am sure were severe.'"

—Albus Dumbledore to Harry Potter, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows

Snippet from 'The Question of Immortality' — Emmanuel Stevens

'Daily Prophet'; 31 October, 2008

[…] Now that the animal forms have been released, one question has been at the forefront for many. There's been whispers since the announcement of Sweeney survivors: do we now have immortal humans?

This is up for debate and it may remain unknown. That is, until one of the survivors has a near-death experience. We do know that not all of the survivors' animal forms are actually immortal. Dragons, nundus, and basilisks are extremely hard to kill, though it doesn't mean they can't die. It is uncertain if boggarts and dementors are mortal, as there has never been a confirmed death of either mysterious creature.

The only one of these animals that is certainly immortal is a phoenix, which is also the only one with a confirmed person attached: Mr. Harry Potter. It is nearly poetic that this happened to the Boy Who Lived, albeit tragic. The MLE has also stated that the Death Eaters killed the 'phoenix' multiple times.

All of this raises another question. How is it that some mortal creatures were able to survive the Sweeney's potion? This infamous and nameless potion was fatal to around 500 victims, whose bodies were twisted into mortal magical creatures. The leading theory is that most of the survivors were killed by the potion, yet their nearly-immortal animals regenerated. Perhaps due to the near invulnerability of creatures like dragons and nundus, they had a chance of fighting off the potion.

Wizards and witches have become familiar with immortality through the ages. From Nicholas Flamel's Philosopher's Stone to the whispers of Gellert Grindelwald's and You Know Who's dark rituals, humans have long sought to live forever. Even old fairy tales, such as 'The Tale of the Three Brothers', touches on the longing to conquer death.

It seems that some of the Sweeney survivors may have stumbled upon the answer to this age-old question.

His body was too big.

There were dangly parts and long parts and muscles where they weren't meant to be. He wasn't locked up, though he felt so wrong wrong wrong. But that wasn't why he was shaking, curled up tight with his fire flickering around him. When he'd woken up (and been so big, too big, so clumsy) it'd been to a grinning human face.

He took the smallest satisfaction that the human hadn't stayed grinning for long—not with the flames and yelping and jumping and fire forcing all the humans with their hungry smiles to flee the room.

This room. It was brighter than where he'd been (crunches eyebrows: too bright, any could see him). He'd tried to fly but ended up sprawled on the wooden ground, tangled in—what was it, human's clothes? Had they clipped his wings? He felt back with his too-long arm before freezing.

They'd cut them. The nasty humans had cut off his wings!

There was only one dark place and he hid there…his too-big body scrunched under the bed, everything floppy, with tears rolling down his face. His feathers! His Wings! Even his talons, all had been cut off.

He whimpered, pressing his beak into the ground. But it pressed back and hurt, and when he went cross-eyed he saw they'd ripped off his beak as well and left a fleshy thing. The fleshy thing was pressed back down, along with the weird fingers and the horrid skin where his talons should be.

He sobbed, the wrong too-long fingers in his wrong, fleshy mouth. What had they done to him? The knife wasn't chop chopping him, but everything was wrong! What was—

A creak of a door. He froze, looking at it while remaining hidden. A sniff: not a human, but something had entered. A being with tiny footsteps.

"Meow?"

The thing poked its head beneath the bed. He blinked, brow crinkling and fire darting away. This wasn't a predator, he knew. It was soft, fuzzy. Like he was meant to be, only with fur rather than feathers.

"Purrrr," the being made a soft noise, slouching under the bed to him. It was so small or he was too big; he didn't know anymore. It crept beside him, back arching, curling against the human clothes on him. "Meeeoow?"

"Sqeeee," he tried to squawk, but it came out wrong. Panic edged back in. His wings were gone! He couldn't chirp! His voice was so low, human low, not his! "Squawk, squawwwk!"

"PURRrrrr," the tiny being gave a soft rumble as he whimpered. The little face nibbled gently on his hand, crooning until he calmed down. "Purr purrrr puuuuurrrrrrrrr…"

His heartbeat slowly settled as the being—the cat? Yes, that was the name—coaxed him. He squinted: a cat. He remembered cats. They were fluffy, and not in the cave. They would've been eaten in the cave, being so squishy and compact.

He outstretched his wrong fingers, hesitantly brushing the cat's head. He got a very happy meow in reply.

The cat seemed familiar, in a way. A she, he somehow knew. Not a 'he' who was supposed to be big and orange and have a floofy, squashed face. Instead, this she was small and shiny and stared at him with big brown eyes.

It made him think of something. Not of the cave, nor of nasty humans who wanted to cut him up. No (his brow furrowed) this cat made him think of what wasn't. A vase that wasn't a vase. A desk that was sometimes a pig. A button that wasn't a button, but a beetle. Music? No, a beetle, like to eat.

He sniffed at the cat, trying to see why she felt wrong. He felt wrong too, but he knew why that was: the humans had gobbled up his wings and the sky and his thoughts.

"Meeeooowww."

Like a rat, he decided without knowing why. She was like a rat who wasn't a rat, except she actually wasn't and he felt that was being mean to the not-cat. She was like…a dog who wasn't a dog! That was it. A not-dog. A big dog, a grim dog who wasn't grim.

He frowned. A not-grim? For some reason, he didn't think the cat would like that. So he had a not-cat, a not-dog, a not-him, and a beetle that he couldn't eat when it was a button. He sniffed at the strange clothes, wondering if he could eat those. He sneezed.

A not-him. He was too big and had nasty fingers and skin, like the human people. Aha, the not-him was turned into a people! Person? A nasty human, either way. It was better than the chop chopping neck, but not by much. He missed his wings.

What about the not-dog? He thought back. There was something, something about a Dog Star. Like the sky he so missed. And there was his flock too, or what was nearly flock…

His FLOCK!

He gave a start, making the cat jerk back in alarm. His flock! He'd been playing with them, he thought. In the cave? No, in the bright room. Flock had given him nice food and bad food, but gave him rubs and pets and scritches. Where was his flock?

He peered around in the dark, not seeing them. What did flock look like? Red. Lots o' red. Big voices, big hugs. There was mate too—his MATE! She'd smelled just the same, of flowers and sky. She'd been red too, with pretty eyes and soft skin and rosy lips…skin and lips, not feathers and beak…

His thought trailed off. His mate? All of his flock had been the same. The male with his loud laugh and warm arms. The female with the hair he got tangled up in and the lap he napped in. They'd…all been big. Without feathers. Without wings.

His flock were humans.

He bit his wrong lip, now worrying. Humans? Not like the nasty ones. These were good humans, who played with him and petted him like he was doing to the not-cat.

With this in mind, he scrutinised her. He'd find his flock and mate and chicks (CHICKS!) soon: for now, there was the matter of the not-cat. She wasn't flock, he knew that. But he liked her. She'd taught him things, like how he'd realised his flock were nice humans! Could not-cat be nice human too?

He inclined his head, lips pursing. He'd flung fire at the last humans in this bright room. Maybe those humans hadn't been nasty ones. Humans didn't like fire, so maybe the nice humans stayed away? But he hadn't set not-cat on fire. Because…oh. She was a not-cat, not a dangly big human. Or?

He opened his wrong mouth and searched his head for the right words to use with his wrong voice: "Huu-man?" was his not-squawk, and he hated it. But he didn't speak not-cat and he sorta spoke this. "You?"

Not-cat nodded. That meant yes, didn't it?

He searched his head some more, grappling at the edges for nearly forgotten words. "Me," he said slowly, unsteadily, "no fire, eef you, nice huu-man."

Not-cat froze before darting back. Then she grew. And grew and grew. She bumped her new head and hair on the bottom of the bed, and it would almost be funny if he wasn't so scared.

"Hello," a human said to him where not-cat had been. He flinched, keeping back the flames. Nice human? Nasty human? It was a she and an old she, with lots of lines and who seemed uncomfortable under the bed as she patted her hair. "I am a…oh, what did you say? A nice human. I won't hurt you. I won't use any magic on you."

His face creased. He believed her, he didn't know why. He still shrunk back.

"Do you understand me?"

A jarring nod.

"That's good. Do you remember your 'flock'? Your family?" she said soothingly, not approaching him. She remained stooped under the bed with him, though shifted in discomfort. "They miss you very much. But for now, is it alright if you talk to me?"

Another nod.

"I am a nice human," she said gently. "My name is Minerva. I use magic to become a cat every so often. But if I stay a cat for too long, I begin to think I'm a cat."

He sniffed, ducking his head away.

"That's what happened to you," not-cat said softly. "You're a nice human too. Then you spent so much time as a bird, that I believe you may be confused right now. Are you?"

He gave a sob, not nodding. He wasn't really human. He wasn't, he wasn't. He was in the wrong body, that was all!

The not-cat stilled before sympathy sunk through her voice. "I'm here," she said, "to help you. Just that. Can you tell me what you want?"

He met her eyes and couldn't stop crying. He kept searching for the words, struggling to grasp them: "Flock," he mumbled at last. "Wings. Sky."

She smiled sadly. "I can help with that," she said, reaching out a hand. He let her grasp his. "Let's take this one step at a time."

Sweet heavens, it was truly Harry Potter! The man was thin, pale, and dearly needed a shave. But there was no mistaking it, not even in this poor light.

Which brought Minerva McGonagall back to the current and surreal problem: she was squeezed under a hospital bed while the 'Wizarding Saviour' sobbed on her. He hadn't burned her, which was something. That he understood English was also tremendous.

"Dear," Minerva said lightly, not wanting to scare the man off when he'd shown some trust in her. "Are you up to talking?"

She'd learned that Mr. Potter was awake very early on. She'd previously made it clear to the Weasleys that it was pointless to try extensive therapy on an animagus still in their animal form. If a person spent too much time as a penguin, it was fool-hardy trying to persuade them they were human while they still had flippers. So they'd needed to wait until Mr. P—Harry was no longer a bird.

When she'd arrived at St. Mungo's, she was just in time to see a flabbergasted Arthur Weasley and a distraught Ron Weasley running from a flaming inferno. Once the Healers had extinguished it, she could see through the smoke the assortment of Weasleys (plus a Potter and a Tonks) blinking in horror outside of a hospital room.

"Harry's feeling peaky," Ron had sighed to her as his wife issued new orders to the bewildered guards. "Or flammable, I dunno. He's in his regular body, at any rate, so that's nice. Though when he woke up properly and saw me…" he drifted off.

"I'm sorry," she'd needed to ask into the nervous silence, "but how exactly did Mr. Potter react?"

Ron had shaken his head, looking lost. "He conjured a bloody inferno! But it's not just that. Harry…when he saw me, he, he was terrified." He winced at something unseen. "He's never looked that scared before."

Now, as Minerva held the shaking wizard, she saw how truly terrified the man was.

"There's no rush," she said softly, words barely lifting as he sobbed. "No one's going to force you to do anything. Your family wants you to be happy: simply that. Happy and healthy."

"No' huu-man!" Was the answering sob.

Minerva hesitated. That was the brunt of the problem, wasn't it. How to make someone human who didn't believe they were human. Or who didn't Want to believe. "We don't have to talk about that," she answered instead, holding him away from her to speak. "Why don't we chat about your flock? What are they like?"

He brightened instantly, though tears still leaked out. "Red!" he said happily, the words flowing more easily with his obvious delight. "Red 'n loud. Big hugs! Others no' red, but hugs!"

"That sounds wonderful," she said with warmth. "Can you tell me about any of them?"

Harry frowned momentarily. It was remarkable how clearly he was searching his memories. It was equally clear when he'd found the right ones, as his expression opened in joy. "M'mate. Smells of flowers 'n sky, 'n had chicks. So pretty, with fire hair 'n egg!"

Minerva found herself nodding along until the last. Egg? Though soon, the obvious answer hit her in a flash. "An egg." Her stomach sank. "Harry…"

Actually, perhaps it would be best if she didn't touch that. Minerva McGonagall was far from a coward, but there was no need to further confuse the man by talking about his as-yet-unknown daughter. Or how human anatomy and pregnancy worked.

She cleared her voice. "An egg. Yes. Well, they're both very healthy and safe." He practically beamed at her in response. It was unnerving for Harry Potter to be making that expression to her.

Detailing the DA — Elizabeth Eclipse

'Witch Weekly'; 2 November, 2008

One of the toughest wizarding events to enter isn't a Gladrags runway show or the Quidditch World Cup. At least for those, tickets are available for a price. Instead, the most exclusive event is an astonishingly informal one that takes place bimonthly. Don't let its modest facade fool you: you need to know the right people to get in, and once you're through you'll be amongst Britain's most influential wizards and witches.

The group 'Dumbledore's Army' needs no explanation, nor do we need to remind readers that it was founded by Harry Potter during the Second War against You Know Who. As the years passed, the 'DA' as it's called transformed into a social club as its members moved from Hogwarts out into the world. The members read like a who's who of influencers: from talented artist Dean Thomas (whose Manchester exhibition we review on page 10) to MP Anthony Goldstein (who went to the muggle world for work, though keeps in touch with wizarding Britain).

The DA was tragically hit by the Sweeney vanishings, where its members former Head Auror Susan Bones and fashion designer Parvati Patil were murdered. With the recent news of Harry Potter's survival, we caught up with the remaining DA members after one of their meetings.

We tried to speak with model Cho Chang (who lost her fiancé, former Falmouth Falcons Coach Roger Davies), but she merely made a rude gesture at us.

"Can't you vultures piss off?" Seamus Finnegan strode out of the Three Broomsticks right behind her. It seemed like he might have had some of his award-winning microbrews. "What're you doing, bothering Cho? It's like if you went up squawking to Ginny or Padma!"

We asked if by 'squawking' he was referencing to…

"Of course I wasn't," Finnegan gritted out. "Harry survived, a bunch of people didn't, and none of us want to talk about it!"

We did find one person willing to talk.

"Of course I've seen Potter." Zacharias Smith told us as we stood slightly away from the doorway. "Poor bloke, eating mice and stuff. He's completely lost his mind and keeps attacking his family—"

"What are you saying?" Hannah Longbottom strode out of her tavern, followed closely by an indignant Ernie Macmillan (who works high up for the Crown). "You haven't seen Harry, he isn't having visitors yet!"

"Though the chap is far from insane." Macmillan assured us while frowning at Smith. "Ron was just telling us that he's working on his animagus form. Still, Harry has been having some problems…"

"Ernie!" Longbottom hissed.

"Right, right." Macmillan coughed as Smith huffed off. "We aren't supposed to say anything."

'Who told you not to say anything?'

"Who do you think?" Longbottom said bluntly. "Besides, you're on my property and I want you to get out. If you have any questions, I'm sure you can contact the Ministry. If you stay, I'm sure there's some War Heroes in there who'll help you find your way out."

Not-cat was back again. She put a weird metal thing in his mouth.

"We don't want to use any magic on you. Hold it between your teeth, dear." Not-cat sat back, eyeing the metal rod carefully. "This will take your temperature. It's spelled to go up very high, so we should be able to tell how warm you are."

"Hmm mmm." He went cross-eyed, trying to look at it. "Mmph?"

"It's called a thermometer. Do you remember that?" Not-cat said kindly. "We'll be able to read it in a few moments. Do you understand why we need to check this?"

"Hmph, twee?"

Not-cat adjusted her seat. "Phoenixes have a much higher temperature than humans do. Since your magic is going back and forth, we want to make sure you aren't too warm."

That was silly! He loved being made of fire, it was part of him. He knew humans didn't like fire much, but what did that matter? Yet, before he could protest, not-cat was taking the metal thing back. Then immediately dropped it with a sharp gasp of pain.

"Oh my!" Not-cat rubbed her hands, wincing. She looked from the metal back to him. "That was harsher than I expected. Do you mind if I use magic to levitate it?"

He frowned. He knew what she meant, of using her wand. Which he didn't like. But he liked not-cat. He slowly nodded. "Mm-kay."

Her smile was reassuring as she pulled out her wand. "Wingardium leviosa."

The metal thing flew up and floated between them. Not-cat peered over, her frown reappearing. "How are you feeling?"

"Good?" Was he supposed to say something else?

"You aren't too warm?" she asked with some disbelief.

"No." He knew that one. If anything, he was too cold.

Not-cat took another look at the metal thing, rubbing her eyes. "You do like to do the impossible, don't you. I'm fairly certain you could use yourself as an oven if you so wished!"

He was confused. An oven, like to cook? He liked to cook. He liked to eat. Was it time to eat? Were there mice?

War on Purebloods? — Benedict Bigby

Snippet from the WWN show, 'National Bastion'; 5 November, 2008

[…] reinforces a long-standing argument we've had on this show. Death Eaters and Purebloods are separate groups! Here we had Lestrange and Flint—two of the few remaining Death Eaters—go on a killing spree of Purebloods.

I want to remind listeners that, while the most prominent survivor is a half-blood, Harry Potter is an exception to the rule. The MLE's said that Purebloods have been specifically targeted for over a year. They think it's because Lestrange targeted magically powerful individuals. I'd be flattered if it wasn't so ghastly.

Is that what our way of life has become? To be picked off because people realise that our magic is indeed more powerful? Lestrange tried to destroy our cultures and traditions in one fell swoop! Which speaks to an ever-growing trend in the past century, let's not forget that. It's come out since the war that You Know Who was a half-blood. A half-blood! As he masqueraded as a Pureblood he ruined all of our good names, resulting in a horrendous downturn in our social and political power.

While the Minister of Magic is Pureblood, he and the Head Auror almost make light of their fine blood statuses. To say nothing of the muggleborn leading the MLE! Not that we're against any blood statuses, of course. Our point is that muggleborns have been exaggerating their persecution in the war from day one. We hope that people will recognise that the true victims of the Sweenies are the Purebloods and our community. I'm not even referring merely to the casualty count.

Lestrange took well-respected Purebloods and transformed them into half-breeds. This is a horrific subversion of Pureblood culture and we won't stand for it anymore!

It was morning. It was bright. He could see the sky and the sun! The not-cat was also back. And was calling him hairy.

"Feat-ers," he insisted yet again, now sitting by the window and wondering if he was getting the right human word. His too-long legs were pulled up against his chest, all in the scratchy human clothes. Why was he wearing them again? "Feat-ers!"

Not-cat seemed tired. "Yes," she said, though he paid more attention to the sky, "your bird form has feathers. I'm saying that your name is Harry."

"Feat-ers, no hair!" He paused, reconsidering. "Some hair," he admitted, as his current not-him form did indeed have hair, "but not hairy. Feat-ery!"

"Your name!" She emphasised with some gusto. He sniffed, wondering how to get out of the window. Would not-cat be mad if he broke it? Probably. Maybe he should melt it? "I'm saying that your name is…maybe we should go about this another way. Do you know my name?"

The sky was so pretty. Big and blue and bright. He put his fleshy nose up against it, making prints with his warm skin and hot breath.

"Minerva," not-cat answered herself. "My name is Min-er-va. Do you know your mate's name?"

This made him glance over. And think. He thought of lots of things: harpies, tugging her close, wind racing by his ears, alcohol, a wide grin and smushed bodies, and tonic. "Gin," he said at last, simply. "Gin."

"That's right," not-cat said encouragingly. "So, what is your name?"

He flinched at this, though he wasn't sure why. More thoughts swept through his head: boy, golden boy, golden goose, chosen one, and the one who lived. "Fre—" he stopped. No, that answer wasn't right. That was the nasty human's answer. Not the nasty wizard, but the older one. With a moustache. "Mister Potter?"

Not-cat blinked. "That's correct? Though odd. What is your First name?"

"Mister?" That wasn't right either. He fumbled for an answer. "Human wizard called me that."

Not-cat was silent for a long moment. "What names do you remember?"

That was a good question. His not-right mouth scrunched up, nothing specific coming to mind. Though, there was that old rhyme. And 'Gin' was kind of in it! Maybe that's what not-cat meant? "I have names?" he said hesitantly. At her encouraging nod he said the rhyme like a song: "Harry-Ginny-Teddy-Jamie-Albie-Baby!" He stopped, inclining his head in a question.

Was that what she'd meant?

Minerva struggled not to gape at the man. She had heard of many coping devices used against the powerful animagus magic, but had never heard such a stark defence mechanism.

Yet, it was all too easy to imagine. Animagus magic caused the animal mind to challenge the human one over enough time. As the weeks went on, it'd become harder to hold onto one's humanity. It was extremely easy to picture Harry Potter trapped as a phoenix, struggling to keep his human memories intact. This strand might have been a last desperate attempt.

Which brought her back to the confused man in front of her, who had no idea what he'd just said.

"Where did that come from?" she asked weakly.

"Rhyme," he answered mildly. "Song."

A song. Sweet Merlin, she wasn't sure if Mr. Potter was a genius or if he'd merely been that desperate. To force a phoenix to remember something by making it into a song…! "Are there other rhymes? Songs?"

He brightened again. "Ye'h!" He properly turned from the window to face her, beginning to sing to the tune of 'Twinkle Twinkle Little Star'. "Auror code black sheep, gold snitch gone. Rodolphus Lestrange is behind the plot. Most of the people are all dead, safe houses are in York, Glen Coe, Kent. Marcus Flint knows locations of all, at least fifteen Sweenies I've seen so far."

Finishing the song, he looked at her with a smile. She could only gape in return.

"Are you kidding me?" Ron stood slack-jawed as Harry carelessly sang the rhyme. "What was that!"

Hermione was similarly amazed as they watched the memory with the Headmistress. They were in a Hit-Wizard interrogation room; one with a Pensieve. "We, we need to interrogate Flint more thoroughly. We've only caught ten Sweenies and had no idea about the other safe-houses."

"Never mind that," Ron dismissed, that being obvious. He kept sneaking glances at memory-Harry. The bloke was sitting cross-legged on the charred hospital bed, frozen in place with a wide beam. "Can we talk about how Harry's gone psycho? Why's he singing That in a children's song?"

"So that the phoenix would remember it," the Headmistress replied. "My best guess is, when Mr. Potter realised his memories were slipping, he scrambled to keep the pieces he felt were most important. Hence, the two songs for the phoenix. Though, I do have a question. What did the beginning part mean, about an Auror code?"

"It's Harry's code name." Hermione kneaded a hand against her forehead, frustrated. "'Golden Snitch' is his main name, then 'gone' denotes the status of missing assumed dead. 'Black sheep' is the overall code that only high ranking officials know, that means something of urgent and crucial importance. Basically, it's all to prove it's Harry."

"Bloody hell!" Ron didn't know how the others were taking this so calmly. "We're talking about Harry losing his damn mind, and keeping only nuggets of info? Why're you talking about the code! No, wait," he turned to McGonagall impatiently, "are there more songs? Besides this one and the insanity of listing his family?"

The Headmistress' lips had thinned. "It is far from 'insanity', Mr. Weasley. If anything, it seems that Mr. Potter was being extremely resourceful."

"Whatever!" He exclaimed, at the end of his rope. "Are there more of these melodies?"

"Not that I know of."

The Sweenies and the States — Ursula Santiago

'Modern Magic'; 8 November, 2008

We're all a twitter over what's been happening in the UK (see what we did there?), though we're far from alone in that. The Sweeney crime spree has grabbed hold of American media and we're all along for this ride. Part of this fascination comes from the fringe involvement of the US with the events overseas. The vast majority of the Sweenies and their victims were British, with only a few exceptions. Namely: two of the biggest players are American citizens.

Serena Rowle is one of the accused masterminds behind this mass killing, alongside Rodolphus Lestrange. Rowle escaped from the British Ministry's raid of the Sweenies' compound. Rumor has it she may have returned to her hometown, Seattle. MACUSA has issued a massive manhunt down the western seaboard. She has been at the top of MACUSA's most wanted since her involvement in the crime was revealed. Rowle had previously taught potions at Cascadia Academy and it's thought that she was the one who created the deadly potion that the Sweenies used.

The other American citizen is one of the surviving victims, Jacob Lee. Like most of the victims it hasn't yet been revealed what magical creature he can turn into, though he's reported to be recovering well. Born in Boston and a graduate of Ilvermorny, Lee's family had immigrated from the UK in the 1970s to escape the first rise of the Dark Lord Voldemort. His mother (Griselda Lee née Ollivander) had been a prominent part of Pureblood society before she and her no-maj husband (Kenneth Lee) fled to the United States. Due to the returning peace in Britain, most of the Lee family returned to Europe in the early 2000s.

Jacob Lee resided in London and was a psychologist in St. Mungo's Hospital. It's believed he was targeted by the Sweenies due to his mother's well-known pureblood family, similar to most of the victims. His family has made a statement to reporters, saying they are thrilled to have Jacob back and that he was in relatively good spirits. They asked that any questions be directed to the British Ministry or to MACUSA.

It's unknown if Lee will remain in the UK. If he doesn't, MACUSA will have to grapple with the question Britain is currently facing: what are the complications that come with this new magical group? Whatever happens, we give our sympathies to the survivors, and our uttermost condolences to the families of the many victims.

He still thought he was too big. He didn't get what was up with his fleshy hands. He still thought clothes were unimportant (but not-cat really cared about that, so he reluctantly kept the uncomfortable cloths on). He absolutely missed his wings. But not-cat said that transforming was a bad idea, and he liked her, so he stayed in the too-big and wrong body.

"Don' like it," he grumped to not-cat, squirming in the white room. Yes, the bed was nice and better than the cave. But the sky was right there! "Don' wanna be huu-man."

"Don't we all," not-cat said drily, which he didn't quite get. "Harry, there's good things about being human. Our emotions and thoughts are more complex than birds' or cats'. People can also fly, we simply need broomsticks."

"Wings!" He was slightly insulted. Had not-cat called him stupid? He also had plenty of emotions. Mounds and mounds of them!

Not-cat rubbed her hair. The bun had curls coming out of it. "That's true, we don't have wings. But we have legs that can run. Dance. We can write with our fingers. We can sing as well."

He snorted. What humans called singing was far from what he considered songs.

She looked at him for a long moment. "There are many ways to return one to their human mind," she said at last. "It's highly individualised. A bookworm could be reminded of libraries, for example. I think you need something more personalised to be able to embrace both parts of you."

He humphed, crossing his arms. He doubted she could convince him of anything like this. He wanted to be a bird: simple, straightforward.

She took a breath and exhaled. "Hogwarts."

He blinked, inclining his head. Hogwarts? Like pigs? But no, warmer than pigs, and with no warts. Or he loved it, warts and all. He loved it?

He thought for a moment. Yes, he loved it. What did he love?

"Hogwarts is a castle where you went to school," not-cat explained. "I was a teacher there and now I'm in charge of it. It's where children learn magic. You met your wife and your best friends there. You mentioned to me once that finding Hogwarts was like finding home."

Home? Home home home. Hoggy-warts Hogwarts, teach me something please…he liked this song.

Exploring the 'Magimagus' — Samantha Sparrow

'Journal of Magical Creatures'; 12 November, 2008

More about Rodolphus Lestrange's motivations have been revealed. While Lestrange's plot was horrific, he and the at-large Serena Rowle had been in the throws of a massive potion-making experiment. Not only were they experimenting with animagus magic; they wanted to see if they could evolve wizardry itself.

We are not trying to make light of the many people who were killed, as this cost roughly 500 people their lives. But the survivors of this massacre are fascinating. Only rumours are coming out of the tightly locked wing in St. Mungo's Hospital in London, though it's whispered that the victims there have control over transforming into their new magical creature forms.

Even more remarkable, some survivors might be exhibiting magical creature traits while in their human form. Particular gossip has circulated that the one who can turn into a Norwegian Ridgeback dragon has yelled obscenities while shooting fire at the Healers.

This amount of power in wizards is incredible and we haven't even touched on the question of immortality. Multiple survivors had previously been magically powerful in their own right (notably Harry Potter). So we are perhaps speaking of a group who have, in an analogy, the power of a werewolf while being able to control the wolf.

There is some precedence for this. This new variation off of animaguses reminds one of beings such as vampires or veelas. Though it is difficult to refer to this group without nomenclature. At the risk of being redundant, I will refer to them interchangeably as 'magimagus' or 'magimaguses' for the rest of this article. 'Magi' for magical creatures and 'magus' for wizards.

Moving on, if you could refer to Graph A. Here we've compared the average magical power of wizards and witches to various magical creatures. As you can clearly see, the results show that […]

In-between not-cat's visits, he started to remember.

No, Minerva's visits. No, McGonagall's visits.

He remembered the others. Ginny's arms wrapped around him. Ron's rough laugh. Hermione's nose in a book. James toddling around, with pride bursting out of his chest. Snuggling Albus close to him, the babe wrapped up in a blankie.

He didn't remember much about himself. He didn't want to.

Then, there was the sky. Something that not-cat (no, NO! Human! Minerva! Hogwarts!) was getting frustrated at. He couldn't stop staring out of the window. He knew he wasn't supposed to jump out of it, though the sky was too wonderful not to stare at.

He thought he was getting other visitors too. His flock (Family! His family, not flock!). But as much as he ached for them, the sky was so much simpler.

So when Hermione crept in, crying, he couldn't look at her and focussed on the changing cloud shapes instead. He couldn't react to Molly's hug (Mum's hug! God, she's mum), nor to her tears. He couldn't even move when Ron came in, nor speak when Ginny begged him to.

Honestly, he didn't notice them that much.

He did think of other things, unpleasant ones. Though he didn't want to remember more. He didn't want to know who You Know Who was (ghastly green light, a mother's scream, a face that haunted him for years). Nor did he want to dwell on the human with a knife; he already knew too much about him. His ghastly smile. The chops that lead to ashes…and ashes…and ashes…

He winced at this, never noticing the others in the room.

Ron and Hermione exchanged a helpless glance, having no idea what Harry was seeing out of the window.

"Okay I'm, okay." His voice was shaky, hand clenched against the window. "I'm doing okay today."

Minerva McGonagall looked at him and he thought she might give him detention. "I'm sure," she said, clearly calling him a liar. "You've been talking with your family, then?"

Of course he hadn't, which they both knew. "I didn't attack Healers today," he answered instead. "That's good?"

This time, McGonagall looked as though he'd gotten a T on an exam. "Hm mmm."

"I spoke to fire lady!" He spoke a bit frantically, really wanting to have had a good day. "That counts!"

"Pardon, 'fire lady'?"

"Fire lady! Like," like not-cat, like not-him. Or no. Damn it, what was her real name? "Fleur," he said slowly, thinking this was right. "I spoke to Fleur last night. It, it was good."

His old professor gave him a true smile and he felt some relief.

It had been nice to see fi—to see Fleur. He hadn't talked much. But he hadn't talked at all with the others, and she'd seemed happy with that. She'd conjured fire in the palm of her hand and it was nice to know other not-humans could do that. Hers was smaller than his and more flickery than flamey, but similar enough.

He couldn't hug her. Couldn't touch her. He thought that was because he was trying so hard not to squawk, and the bird piece of his mind yearned to leap and fly around.

He realised McGonagall had been talking and chided himself. He hadn't been listening. Things flew past him these days, as though his mind was leaking. Or like the thoughts flew out and in without a thought…like how he could fly out the window…

No! No, he was going to have a good day. Christ, why couldn't he focus?

"Harry?"

"Sorry," he apologised automatically. "Wha—what were you saying?"

Her expression softened. "Have you been doing the exercises I suggested?"

No. Yes. Partly. Not really at all. When he could concentrate. "Some," he ventured.

Editor's Note: Magimagus Inquiries — Teresa Tail

'Journal of Magical Creatures'; 14 November, 2008

Magizoology has always prided itself on its exploration of new ideas. This field is constantly shaken by riveting theories. But it is rare that these discoveries stir interests in other disciplines. With that said, the societal and legal ramifications of the now-infamous Sweeney killings are much beyond this publication's scope of expertise. The world was recently made aware that eight people survived an experimental potion meant to turn them into magical animals, in a butchering of the traditional animagus transformation. The existence of the 'magimaguses' has astounding implications for magizoology.

More details on the stunning announcement from renowned magizoologists Luna and Rolf Scamander of the discovery of a Crumple-Horned Snorkack can be found on page 10 of this same issue. Needless to say, that the magimagus plight led to an undiscovered (and unclassified) species is incredible. We eagerly await the Scamanders' research papers on the subject.

There are still other questions that these magimagus wizards may be able to answer. As one of the survivors can turn into a boggart, they could inform us of what a boggart's original form is. We could also have access to the extremely rare basilisk poison. Similarly, the chance to study the fatal and elusive lethifold is groundbreaking. On a lighter note, this could make it possible to research the capabilities of phoenix 'apparition', which currently does not seem to have spatial limits.

All of which is still speculative. But it is our hope that some good may yet come out of this horrendous crime. We are academically interested in what may be revealed, though we primarily wish the absolute best to the victims and their loved ones.

There were other times, he thought, that he didn't have good days. Days where all he could see was the sky. Days where not-cat would try to get his attention and fail. Days where people were crying over him and he barely noticed a thing.

Couldn't anyone else see how beautiful the sky was? Big and blue and easy to understand.

"What I don't get," Ron said testily, pacing up and down the waiting room, "is why Harry's the only one who's gone loony! Well, apart from Monroe. But she's bloody well a dementor."

"He hasn't gon—" Hermione didn't finish and changed directions, "he was with the Sweenies for the longest time. They also mur…murdered him repeatedly. None of the others had that. Not even Moira Green, and she isn't exactly chipper either."

Minerva McGonagall eyed them speculatively, choosing her words carefully. "This might sound strange, but Mr. Potter is actually doing quite well considering the circumstances."

The other two gave her double-takes, stark disbelief in their expressions.

"You have to remember, it isn't only the trauma. Being in one's animagus form for a year is nothing to laugh at. At best, someone in that situation would be exhibiting animal traits for some time. With the added trauma, I suspect Mr. Potter fully let the animal mind take over."

Ron looked at her harshly. "He wouldn't just let—"

McGonagall raised a hand. "Accidentally let. Normal animal forms have immense presences, so I can't imagine how strong a phoenix's would be! Mr. Potter is starting to come back to himself. The shifting attitudes are likely the human and animal minds fighting for control."

Ron gazed away for a long moment. "There was something I never got," he admitted. "You say being in an animagus form for a year can mess with someone's head? Cool. But Peter Pettigrew was damn well a rat for twelve years and came out peachy!"

"Of what I saw of him, he was far from 'peachy'." Minerva pictured her shaking and skittering former student who had hardly resembled who he'd once been. "Though yes, his human mind remained in control. I expect it's because he wasn't a rat for twelve straight years. Even small breaks to transform back can ensure that the human remains in the forefront."

Ron looked pale. She couldn't imagine what was going through his mind. "Yeah," he said weakly. "I guess, it's not like we saw Scabbers all the time. He was always racing off."

Hermione took his hand, squeezing it. Minerva was amazed and proud at how the two had grown.

"Harry will recover," Hermione said firmly, to herself or to them. "He's too stubborn to do anything but."

"I do want to be clear," Minerva warned, "that he will certainly have 'off' days. In the near future, expect his mind to go back and forth frequently. I don't know when he will begin to talk to you. But even when he does, do not be hurt when he stops. This is something he literally cannot help."

Ron spoke roughly, swiping at his eyes. "We get it, we aren't about to blame him. But being with him is the best idea, right?"

"Precisely," Minerva nodded. "Simply keep talking to him about everything and nothing. In time, he'll answer back."

"I'm human," he murmured the mantra to himself. "I'm an animagus. My name's Harry Potter. I'm human, I'm an animagus, my name's Harry Potter."

("It isn't about memorisation, it's about belief," McGonagall had explained before. "You need to get these words into your head and to believe them. Believe that you are human, that you can choose to turn into an animal, and that you have a human identity. Everything else is based off of that.")

"I'm human, an animagus. My name's Harry Potter."

It was a normal name, he thought. Not like Hermione or Ginevra or Remus Lupin or Rodolph—

He stopped himself, rapidly shaking his head. No, he wasn't going to think about the cave. He wasn't a bird, he wasn't in the cave, no one was chop chop chopping him. He was a human animagus with a boring name. He was also stubbornly not looking at the other person in the room as he repeated the mantra.

"I'm human," he continued unsteadily, hands gripping his hair, "I'm an animagus, my name's Harry Potter."

"Yeah," another voice said, "but do you believe a word of it?"

He tuned him out. "I'm a human animagus, I'm Harry, I'm a human…"

"Seriously mate," George Weasley said from the bed, concerned. "If you don't want to interact with me, that's okay. But remember what McGonagall said? It's about Meaning the words, not just repeating them."

"Human animagus! I'm, I'm Harry."

"You clearly don't believe this."

"Human! Animagus! Potter!"

"Sure mate, sure."

Feathers, Fur? Fashion!— Miranda Rotchill

'Witch Weekly'; 20 November, 2008

Magimagus-inspired outfits are taking the world by storm! The top models from Los Angeles to Tokyo are rocking this brand new trend.

Based off of the tragic Sweeney crime spree in Britain, these clothes are a celebration of the eight heroic survivors. Particularly popular are dragon hoodies that 'breathe' bubbles into the air, lethifold- and dementor-inspired cloaks for the upcoming winter, and faux snake scale gowns that change colours.

Unsurprisingly, by far the most popular are any phoenix-inspired clothes. The only survivor who has had their animal form confirmed is the famous Harry Potter, who can turn into the aforementioned fiery bird. We caught up with designer Naomi Ruffles to chat about this trend.

"It's in remembrance of finding light in the dark," Ruffles said while showing us her mini-dress made of shiny red and orange faux feathers. "Their survival should be an inspiration to all! Mr. Potter was already an icon before these events, which is why I think the phoenix trend is particularly chic and poignant."

Ruffles also sells a headdress that imitates cascading phoenix wings. Both are currently sold out, but she assures us there will be a restock soon. She emphasised that she only uses faux feathers, fur, or scales in her creations.

The main designers selling these clothes are putting a portion of their profits into a fund for the magimagus group. Most of these victims are recovering in London where their families haven't spoken much to the press. Ginny Potter did make a brief statement thanking the fashion houses for their well wishes. She said that, while their family was grateful, her husband's part of the fund would be transferred to the family of Parvati Patil.

Patil was killed by the Sweenies, and had been close to the Potters and a celebrated designer herself. Though it was early in her career that she was tragically taken, she had already been known for her fashionable reinterpretations of traditionally drab wizard garb. She and all of the victims will be missed.

"Look at the drawings, oh my gosh!" He hopped on the bed, overjoyed as he looked at the walls. The charred blankets skittered and bounced around his feet. "All the colours!"

"Harry…" not-cat sighed from where she sat.

"Fire lady said it's from chicks, an' they're so pretty! They drew them for me!" He peered closely at one of them, his wrong fleshy nose up against the crayon green of a maybe-house.

"Harry, we've been here before. The pictures are lovely but you need to calm down."

"They're so good!" He jumped over to examine another wall, not minding when his too-long leg kicked over a lamp. Not-cat fixed it with a wave of her wand. "So pretty!"

Another sigh. "They're very pretty, you're right."

He dreamed, too. Of an enchanted castle as well as magical toy soldiers that'd transform his cupboard. He'd dream of lazy days by the lake or in the air. He dreamed of the Burrow with the smell of warmth and a feast in the kitchen.

He'd dream of a decaying hand that sucked the happiness from his world. He'd dream of so many dragons and so many times his heart had been in his throat. He'd dream of a woman's begging scream and of a bright green light. He'd remember Lord Voldemort. He'd remember his scar igniting and how the pale face would twist into a butchered grin. He'd remember how terrified he'd once been of the man.

He dreamed of you know who. Not of Voldemort, who was merely a corpse in an unmarked grave. He dreamed of the monster he couldn't think of, the cave he couldn't speak of, the chop chopping that'd ripped his mind to bits. He dreamed of hands forcing his mouth open and a potion pouring and his muscles spasming and pain lurching across every inch as he screamed and boiled and his thoughts became a bonfire…

He didn't dream much. He didn't sleep much. As he slowly came back to himself, he wondered what the hell the point of it was. Because, he dreamed of Harry Potter. These were nightmares, not lullabies.

"Did you ever just," Harry gestured vaguely when McGonagall visited one evening, "wanna stay a cat? Like, during the wars. When being human was messy."

Minerva thought for a long moment. "I certainly had thoughts like that," she said at last, "just like I'm sure you sometimes wished to give up. But neither of us did that."

Harry almost wanted to laugh. He'd walked into the Forbidden Forest, he'd accepted his death! He'd given up.

"The right road isn't always the easy road," she gently prodded him. "Sometimes, true courage is getting through each day as it comes."

There was a long silence.

"Mr. Potter," she said, "Harry. The choice is ultimately yours. No one will force you to do anything. You're free to transform into a phoenix, if you wish. Walking away from being human isn't cowardly."

It wasn't brave, though. Just so tempting.

"But there are so many people who love you. They would also love a bird, though they'd feel bereaved. We want to heal you, that's all. It's simple." She gave him a sad smile. "Harry, when has running away from your problems ever worked?"

A/N: I'm so sorry for how confusing this chapter surely is. Interweaving Harry's messed up thoughts with snippets of articles maybe wasn't my best idea. Oops?

As for the big question: yep, Harry's crazy. Super crazy. A chapter from his point of view was always going to be nuts. If you thought he had problems before, oh boy.