A/N
Hello, A new chapter is coming! But before we start I would like to answer several things in the reviews:
Babbity Rabbity: You've asked me to explain the blood regeneration curse so there it goes:
So the operator of the curse have to put a small sample of their blood into a container, so take that curse as part of geminio curse, which increase the quantity of stuff. The blood will be increased and hidden in nothingness until the curse is fulfilled by a person, which in this case, is Voldemort's "Child". To make that only one person, there will be three requirements to say, let's have a look at Voldemort's words:
"The first fatherless child who said the dark lords name without knowing it's true meaning will get me as their missing father…"
Three requirements, find it in the sentence!
I Ship Hinny: Oh hello I ship Hinny too! I might pm you on that if you allows… Btw, I so very touched! Thank you!
Animes and movies: You're welcome, I said that I'll decide on publishing this or not on the crowd vote for data… But I got the ending ready anyways sooo…
Last Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HARRY POTTER! I WISH I DO BUT I DON'T, THAT IS WHY I AM ON FANFICTION, OK?
ps. The above was written before I took a hiatus... I'm getting busy in highschool.
Chapter 1
Fire and Destiny
1 March 2013
It has been nearly fifteen years since the forever defeat of Lord Voldemort. Fifteen years of peace; fifteen years of mourning for the deceased; fifteen years of picking up the bits and pieces of brokenness, until it all felt like the good old days before the intrusion of the dark lord again. For those who had lost family members and friends in the wizard's war, it never felt the same. The same hollowness as if an important piece of their heart was missing, or perhaps it was.
Since the dawn of Voldemort's death and of the death eaters' attempted escape, it was officially known that the need to be patient was one of the decent-sized priorities, but still, everyone was eager to fix a million fractures in the world at the same time. Such as revenging upon the death eaters that took their loved ones, patching up the ministry, developing equality among those of different parentages, deciding who was under the imperius curse and who was acting of their free will, and the list went on and on until it went to minor issues between random people. There had been arguments and riots against Minister of Magic Kingsley Shacklebolt's choices of order, but the world was successfully rebuilt to a better place where no one has to ever be afraid of a swish of a cloak anymore.
It was a peaceful Friday afternoon at around three-thirty. Screaming children ran along the streets in their little uniforms, chased by laughing parents as they played their games and sang their crazy rhymes. A smile tugged at Isabelle's lips as her breath fogged on the café's dingy window, wondering how could those children of her own age be so carefree when she'd been so careworn.
Her schoolmates ran around a corner and disappeared down an aisle, leaving nothing but a clash of giggles and panting adults.
No sooner had they disappeared did a thud shake the table. Isabelle spun around and put her hands on the tablecloth just in time to get a handful of wet, repulsive coffee.
'S-sorry Madam… I will g-get a new cup of… of c… Coffee? For you? I- uh… oh! Please wait, f-for your coffee. Yeah… Madam.'
Isabelle's mother Avalene shook her head contemptuously at the waitress's retreating back, mouthing stuff only a lip reader can understand, though Isabelle was quite sure she interpreted 'Forgetful' and 'These days'. She reached underneath the wooden table and dried her hands on the tablecloth, its occasional brown stains told her it happened quite often here.
Isabelle's feet dangled 2 inches above the ground when she sat on her spindly chair. Her slender fingers pressed down onto her chair in an attempt to look as tall as possible. Her red hair ablaze carried light curls that made it tamable and wavy as well as wild and full of personality: there was a time when her hair thought for itself and stubbornly stayed in savage tangles, especially every morning out of bed. Her thin layer of bangs wrapped itself in just above her bluish-green eyes she inherited possibly from her non-existent father, or maybe her mother… Maybe she just never bothered to look.
'Mum?'
'Mmm-hmm?'
'Do I have Papa's eyes?'
Avalene's eyes zapped up, alarmed and very, very blue, without a spill of green in it.
Isabelle tried very, very hard to hide the mounting excitement threatening an abrupt wave of adrenaline.
Because this is the moment her mother will tell her, after 7 years of avoiding the topic. She would tell her that she has her father's eyes and that he loved Isabelle a great deal before he was gone. She felt dizzy with euphoria just thinking about it, and oh please… by the name of… er- me? Don't pass out, please don't-
'Your coffee, madam… Thank you for… for? Your p… patience? Thank you for your p-p-patience, ma- um-'
'You are very welcome.'
'My… all my… pleasure?'
'Yeah, all your pleasure, now would you be so kind and do your work. No offence.'
'Of course- I- I mean… er…'
The so-young-to-have-such-poor-memories waitress scurried off, embarrassed. Even after coming to her café thrice a week, Isabelle still didn't know her name, or maybe that waitress had forgotten her name anyway.
But inside, she felt nothing but annoyance at the waitress: She couldn't have come at a more convenient time…
She felt bitter as she tried to pick up the subject again, but her mother managed to ignore her through the loud slurping of her coffee.
So eventually she had to give up, living with the knowledge that she was so close to knowing something about her family.
There was an impact of glass and metal against wood as her mother stood up, putting down her cup and slamming down a few coins. Soon the waitress was running over to retrieve those, but Avalene had swept towards the exit as usual, with Isabelle trailing behind her.
They had barely gone down the street before Isabelle's feet stalled beneath her, and her eyes caught on an abandoned outer layer newspaper, on top in black, bold words, wrote:
The Daily Prophet
It was not a strange name, but out of all the newspapers she found laying on the street, this one had a uniqueness she couldn't explain. Maybe it was how the picture beneath the headline seemed to be moving, or maybe the newspaper company was nothing like the usual papers businessmen had their noses buried in; or maybe it was how millions of weird words and names scattered across the page that caught her attention, names such as Harry Potter, something Shacklebolt, and more.
Because as much as her knowledge can tell her, these aren't names of some stars or political leaders. They are just names of… common people.
Curious, she bent down to pick it up and folded it quickly under her coat before hurrying after her mother.
Isabelle felt a surge of privacy and eagerness she couldn't explain when she closed her bedroom door behind her, settled on her bed and pulled out the newspaper clipping. On the back of it (which she assumed was the last piece in the newspaper) was a small piece about today being a person called Ronald Weasley's birthday. This name, too, was unrecognisable to her, so she scavenged through the rest of the small short article, scanning for some indication of what Ronald Weasley did to be famous enough to appear in newspapers. Maybe he was a movie star, some millionaire… Maybe…
… Known friend of Harry Potter, the boy who defeated he-who-must-not-be-named (Lord Voldemort)... known member of the Order of the phoenix… Special Auror trained by Kingsley Shacklebolt…
Always the weird names and a million things Isabelle didn't understand. Sure, she was only seven, but why had her friend Charlotte never talked about it? Charlotte, who claimed herself to be the princess of imagination land; Charlotte, who knew and followed more celebs than everyone in her school; Charlotte, who never stopped gossiping about singers and actors and heroes to Isabelle.
She just can't imagine a celebrity who Charlotte didn't know.
And she can't wait to show Charlotte this.
She read the paragraph again, pausing at he-who-must-not-be-named (Lord Voldemort). A giddy laugh escaped her throat: this newspaper was unique. It stated he can't be named but named him anyway. This name was weird as well, because as far as she was concerned, Voldemort is not a normal family name, like Cassidy, like Robinson. She knew some superstitions about breaking a mirror and black cats and witches, but this was something new: fear of a name! She remembers breaking those superstitions and denying them one by one since she read about them. A kind of fun always emerged in the riskiness of it all, and this is no different.
'Lord Voldemort,' she muttered under her breath and waited.
Nothing happened. Isabelle kept her little smile of achievement to herself. It felt as if she'd made an important discovery, or maybe she had.
She crossed over to the small window in her room, threw it open, and froze.
The palm tree in front of her window had caught fire on one of its branches. She leaned forward, ready to scream, but the sound was stuck in her throat; and she froze again.
It was not fire, it was a bird.
It was beautiful… Divine… it was the spirit of the god of fire, transformed into a bird on his journey to the human world.
Its wings were folded against its body; its amber eyes alight with restlessness. Its whole body was an imitation of fire from its scarlet and gold feathers to its gleaming yellow beaks. Its tail feathers were long and swishing and its claws gripping the branches were tight and sharp. Overall, it had the body, legs and claws of an eagle, but with flaming feathers. There was a burning sensation to it all: it was fire but not fire, bird but no normal bird.
Slowly it blinked and arose in a new surge of flames. A flash. A sparkle.
Isabelle cried aloud and stumbled backwards, before rushing back and peering out of the window once more.
The bird was gone.
Isabelle gasped and rubbed frantically at her eyes. Maybe that was what happens when someone says the name: they'll get hallucinations.
'Isabelle!' her mother's voice came from below, 'stop yapping about and do your homework!'
That's all.
She took a deep breath and grabbed her pencil from her writing desk, her arm shaking uncontrollably with anxiety. That bird… The fire… The name and the newspaper and the birthday…
What does it all mean?
She dragged her notebook towards her and began to write, her heart rate increasing every second. As she forced her pencil down to write a full stop, a charred hole appeared on the paper, and it was ignited with fire. Burning and burning and burning and burning and burning…
She lowered her hand on top of the flames, telling herself it was but an illusion, this whole thing was a dream, starting from the bird. Soon she would wake up in bed, and go to school, and this Friday would be very different. She would pick up a newspaper full of understandable rubbish, and find a cat sitting on the palm tree, not a firebird, never a firebird. Her fingertips brushed the fire, no pain, nothing, just her eyes lying and sending adrenaline everywhere. It was all a lie, everything.
Except it wasn't.
Because the moment the flames subsided her notebook was but a pile of ashes, and she never woke up from this nightmare.
###
On the same day, Olivander was organising the rows of wands in his wand store, sorted by length, wood type, wand core and flexibility. His wand store was the same as usual, the same dusty walls, the same fragile chairs, the same smell of abandonment, of neglect. His memories at this place override all others: the eleven-year-olds buying their wands… He had seen them all: from Cornelius Fudge to Kingsley Shacklebolt, the Dark Lord to Harry Potter. Every one of them held his wand in their hands, and it was impossible not to be proud of that.
A heated crack sounded behind him and he snapped around, ready to welcome his unexpected customer; but there was no one behind him. Olivander scratched his balding head and realised that it didn't sound like an apparating noise anyway. Just as he was about to turn away, someone, or rather something, caught his attention again. Harrumphing, he crossed over to behind one of the shelves and…
Holly… Yew… Containing one feather from the tail of a phoenix… Why? My boy… It's the wand's brother that gave you this scar…
He remembered the occasion quite clearly. About how he made the wands and who he sold them to, especially these two: the twin cores whose owners never stopped fighting until one triumphed over the other…
'Fawkes?' He lit his wand and approached the handsome figure. Underneath the bright glowing orb, it didn't even flinch.
Fawkes's meaningful amber eyes landed on him for a brief moment before abruptly breaking eye contact. The phoenix was as elegant as ever; with its golden beaks, legs and vividly flaming feathers that could light a candle if anyone bothered to try. Every once in a while it would burn itself to cinder and be reborn from the ashes. From newborn to adult to elder to death and to newborn again, and again, and again…
Just as he was thinking about ashes and rebirth and fire, it happened before his eyes: something dropped out of the flames as the fire erupted. It was all a rush, and the phoenix was there no more. Where it stood a second ago lay a piece of parchment filled with sophisticated and slender writing. Beside it a curved phoenix tail feather fine enough for a wand core drifted down, looking like a miracle around its drab surroundings.
The handwriting was familiar, but Olivander for some reason could find nowhere to place it. Curious, he picked up the parchment closer to his face and read.
Mr Olivander,
Please use this feather to construct the last wand with Fawkes's feather as a core. Use any wood but sycamores. Its owner will be the new owner of this phoenix, and only with Fawkes's guidance will the world outlive fate.
Please comply.
Thank you.
Here, hope you like this new chapter, and happy Easter btw. My biggest thank you to the reviewers and those who favourited and followed me. It meant a lot to me. So... Thank you. And have a nice day y'all!
