Chapter X ct'd: Lessons from the Phoenix

"Oh, excuse me," said a deep voice from behind us. Harry and I dropped what we were doing, instantly whirling around, wands out, standing in between Hermione and this man. "I'm sorry," he said, "I was just doing my night rounds." Upon closer observation, we found that this man was a security guard. "I apologize, Mr. Weasley, Mr. Potter." Harry and I nodded to him.

"No problem, Mr.…" Harry faltered, his eyes scanning for a badge or identification.

"Jones," the man supplied, holding out his hand. "Telemachus Jones."

"Mr. Jones," I said, now shaking his hand, and slipping him a galleon or two. "See that no one disturbs us again." I held his hand a millisecond longer than necessary, showing him that I meant business.

He nodded. "Yes, sir. Have a nice night." He smiled a little, and it was a very disturbing smile. One that I had seen before. There was something in his smile that didn't reach his eyes- emotionless eyes.

When we heard the door shut, I turned to Harry. "I have a bad feeling about that man."

"I've seen him somewhere."

"How did he know that we were here? I didn't even know about this place; it certainly can't be in a security guards' night rounds."

"And more importantly," said Harry, "How did he get in here? There are hundreds of locking and unlocking spells. How did he know the specific counter-spell?"

"Do you think he was following us?"

"Impossible, we were under the invisibility cloak."

"Harry…" said Hermione softly.

"In a minute," he told her, before turning back to me. "Maybe it is just a coincidence. Ron, track down the security guards and their rounds."

"Harry…"

"Hold on, Hermione. See if you can find a 'Jones' on the security list at all. There's something about that man. No ID… he just gives me a bad feeling."

"Right," I said, turning.

"Harry!"

"What?" He asked, frustrated, turning to her finally. But when he did, his eyes widened. She was ghostly white, her eyes wide, and her hand trembling.

"Come look at this," she said, her voice deathly afraid. "Come look at this and tell me that I'm not going crazy. Tell me that you see it, too. Or tell me that I am crazy, I'd rather be crazy and wrong that sane and right. Tell me you see it, Harry, and tell me what to do."

Oh no…I thought. When she doesn't make any sense, she's either figured something out or something serious has gone wrong.

"Track down that payroll for me, Ron," Harry said, crossing to where Hermione was. He took off his glasses, sliding the weapon under the lens of the microscope. He took a minute to focus and neither of us moved. But when he stood up, his mouth was open slightly, and he was wearing a look identical to Hermione's.

"What is it?" I asked, payroll forgotten.

"What are we going to do, Harry?" asked Hermione, ignoring me.

"I… I don't know. But we're in over our heads."

"What's going on?" I asked again, confused.

"We can't ask for help," Hermione reasoned, "We're not supposed to be here in the first place. They'll throw us in Azkaban."

"I… I don't know what to do," said Harry, putting his glasses back on, and running a hand through his dishevelled hair. "I just don't know."

"What is it?" I demanded, pushing by the two of them and peering for myself into the microscope. I focused slightly, and all I saw was six fine lines engraved in the metal- crossing each other and shooting off from the ends. I was confused, but I had seen this before.

"Hermione, what is this?"

She swallowed hard. "Are you sure that you want to hear?"

"Yes, of course I want to know," I said. "What's going on, Hermione?"

"You'd better sit down," said Harry, pulling up a stool for him and me. Hermione perched herself on the table.

"What do you know about World War II?" she asked.

I shook my head blankly.

"Oy," said Harry, "This'll be harder than I thought." I shot him a glare that should have lightened up the mood, and would have in normal circumstances, but he wasn't paying attention to me.

"Nazis? Hitler? Anything?" Hermione prompted. Still, I shook my head.

Harry adjusted his angle to face me. "You know about the Hybrid Mafia, don't you?"

"Refresh my memory, tell me how it relates to Muggle history and the thing on that dart." I said, crossing my arms.

"The Hybrid Mafia," Hermione began, sounding like a textbook, "Consists of wizards- Neo-Death Eaters, most often, Muggles- those that are involved with the mafia in New York, Italy, Chicago, Moscow, and other major cities; many Russians who still believe and strive for communism, and some Neo-Nazis still left in the world. They all have one goal, and that is to rid the world of all who aren't like them. Jews, "Mudbloods", general minorities, and countless other groups."

"What they don't realize, though," Harry took over, "Is that virtually, they would kill of each other, as well, as they don't fit into their "perfect" stereotypes. It's a money and power hungry bureaucracy, really. The wizards in the group use the imperious curse to control the scum of the underworld to do their dirty work, promptly… er… disposing of them."

"Follow us?"

"Yes," I said, "but how does this relate to the case?" I asked.

"You saw that insignia on there, didn't you?" Hermione asked. I nodded as she continued, "That's a swastika. The symbol of the Nazis in World War II, and the symbol that the Hybrid Mafia has adopted for themselves. It's the first major clue that we can actually use, similar to the Dark Mark."

"Why don't they just use the Dark Mark?" I asked.

"Because the Wizards all know what it means," Hermione replied, as if it were the easiest thing in the world. "But not many of us, except the targets, know what a swastika is."

"All right, so we must know who these people are. Just trace their history to see if it has to do with Fitzgerald, and there ya have it."

"But we don't know who they are," Harry said. "It's not just criminals, as you'd think. They've infiltrated the governments and agencies- The Magical Ministry and the Muggle Ministry, the CIA, the-"

"The point is," Hermione interrupted, "Is that the three of us can't beat an underground organization as an underground organization, do you see? We can't take them out; there's no way. We're stuck, unless we're somehow able to lead the Ministry to it."

I awoke early the next morning, just dying to escape the confines of my dormitory. Quickly, I dressed warmly and grabbed my camera, escaping from the smell of perfume, the colour pink and my friends. Technically, it isn't against the rules to be awake before breakfast, it's just that nobody ever is.  I walked down a floor to a place that many people walk by every day, and tend to overlook. On the second floor there is a corridor of Transfiguration classrooms. At the end of the hall, there are large bay windows. This happens to be right below Gryffindor Tower. What I noticed once was that the windows open up to a balcony, offering an amazing view of the grounds.

I didn't quite know what was better in these days: being in a room full of people, and being completely alone, or being completely alone in both respects. I had lapsed back into my inky black mood that had taken hold during the summer holidays, trapped in my own dark thoughts, and hating every second. There was no escape from an inky black mood- well, at least not a legal one.

Sometimes, I figure that life is like a picture. Sometimes, it's a still-frame- all pieced together perfectly, the right lighting, good technique. You can tell exactly what it is at a glance. Sometime, thought, you can have a poorly shot picture that's blurry, and requires closer inspection. And other times, it's an action shot (like Dad being thrown from a horse) that requires a whole lot of scrutiny before you can figure out that that streak of fiery red is someone's head, and not the sun exploding. And then there's those times when it's abstract- not even a photograph at all. Just shapes and blobs arranged in ways that make sense only in the minds of the creator.

And then there are those times- those beautiful, perfect times that can only be understood by a true artist- when you find the shot that moves you to tears at the sheer simplicity of it all- the beauty, the wonder, the depth, and the magnitude of the world captured in just one brief moment is enough to floor you, feeling completely content (like right after Grandmum's Christmas dinner) and yet, so completely empty and wanting more but loving the feeling anyway. You gain and lose the world in that moment.

I have to confess, I didn't quite get that last metaphor on my own. Mum used it just two or three years ago when I had asked her a question that I was sure that she would know the answer to. Even she was at a loss for words at first.

I chuckled at the memory of it. It was the first time I had laughed in days, and was very grateful for the distraction.

"Mum?" I had asked, as shy and timid as I ever got. "Can I come in?" It was after hours at school, and I certainly wasn't allowed out of bed. But when you're eleven years old and the world is crumbling down around you, you don't really think about how pissed your mother is going to be when she finds you disobeying the rules.

"You're not supposed to be out of bed," she said, without missing a beat. "What's wrong, Love?"

I sighed at the word. Love. I trudged into her office, poured myself a cup of the tea that she constantly kept brewing, and sat wearily down into a large and very comfortably armchair.

"Mum? How do you know…" I trailed off. Oh, this was embarrassing. I hated talking to my mother about anything… too girly and… you know, personal.

She sensed my uneasiness, as only a mother can do, and set her quill aside, ready to give me her undivided attention. "How do you know what?" She stood and poured herself some tea and sat in the armchair adjacent to mine, without her cumbersome desk as a barrier between the two of us.

"How do you know," I continued, turning redder than my hair, "How do you know that you're… mineraugh." 

"Sorry, I didn't quite catch that last part. How do you know that you're… a mineral?"

I giggled softly.

"A minister?"

A bit harder…

"My rug?"

Still harder. "No, that's not it," I said, thinking that she needed a little help if she wanted to get out of here anytime soon. I wouldn't realize until later that she knew exactly what I was saying, but waiting for me to tell her. Or maybe she was just trying to make me lighten up and not be so embarrassed. Or maybe both. Whatever her motives, she was amazing.

"Well are you going to tell me, or will I have to spend the whole night guessing?"

My blush was back, but not quite at the same extent. "Well… how did you feel when you were in love with Dad? You know, when you were younger?"

She laughed, until the implications of the question set in, and she sobered quite quickly. "Where is this coming from, Emily?"

"Oh, you know," I said, "Just… curious."

She sat back and inhaled shakily, as if debating on how exactly to answer such a trivial question. "First off," she said, after she finally spoke, "I still am in love with your father. I always will be. I-"

"But how do you know?" I interrupted. This was bad enough to be asking, I didn't want to hear all of the sappy stuff about her and Dad.

"How do I know what?"

"That you're… in… love," I said, with great effort.

"When you are Emily, you'll know."

I sighed and pouted in a way reminiscent of when I was seven, missing my two front teeth and being forced to eat vegetables. "That's what Aunt Ginny said," I muttered.

Mum raised an eyebrow. "Aunt Ginny?"

"Rachel asked her for me," I explained. "We wanted more than one opinion. Just in case." I thought I saw the corners of her mouth curve upward slightly as she sat forward, resting her elbows on her knees. I matched her position, so our faces were mere inches away from each other and I could look into her eyes, just to make sure that she was telling me the truth. You never can be too sure when it comes to your parents.

"My little girl… I'm so proud of you. You're growing up, Emily," she said. It seemed almost sad. It also sounded like she wasn't intending to answer my question.

"That's great, Mum, you too. Now… love?"

She smiled and sat up. And thus, the excellent metaphor involving the best thing in the world, being photography, of course, and the scariest, love being the only choice left, was born. It could only have been better had the Chudley Cannons been involved somehow. For some reason, though, I just can't see my mother saying, "You know, Emily, love is like the Chudley Cannons."

Now that was a mental image involving the best and scariest things in the world.

It was so good to be away from the present sometimes- to be lost in your thoughts and memories. I'm sure that Professor Dumbledore would argue the same thing. He had shown me the Pensieve in his office once. Ever since then, I'd longed to have one of my own to keep my memories alive and in tact for me to wander through whenever I wanted to. Of course, I wasn't an idiot. I knew what the downside of that would be, and, quite frankly, I preferred not to think about it.

I saw Hagrid open the door to his hut and take a big breath of the morning air. He strode with the ever-present jolly bounce in his step to enter the school, and I knew that there was only one thing that could get Hagrid up this early in the morning, and that was food. If I wanted to keep my spot a secret, I'd have to leave now before everyone else passed by my spot.

I slid down of the railing and was about to climb through the window when something bright caught my eye. Immediately, my hands fumbled for my camera as I searched the sky until I found it.

A huge bird, much bigger than should be flying with such dexterity- was circling the sky and singing in strange, but remarkably beautiful, ethereal tones an undistinguishable melody. As the sun peaked out from behind a cloud, I was able to get a good look at it. It was a mouldy shade of red, and looked dried up, ready to collapse at any moment. In fact, it was apparently slowly unravelling, as its' strange red feathers were falling from its' wings as I watched. I quickly snapped picture after picture, amazed at whatever this was. Then, without warning, the bird was gone in a burst of flames. I screamed at the shock of it, completely unhinged. It was the weirdest thing that I'd ever seen, and certainly not something that I'd forget soon. I wasn't quite sure if I wanted to, at that.

I quickly scrambled through the window, anxious not to be seen.

I took my now usual seat next to Landon, Charlotte and James in the Great Hall, waiting with the rest of the students for food to appear in the golden platters before us. The House Elves must have been running late, though, because owls swooped in before we were eating. Surprisingly, I got more than my usual letters from Mum (and Dad as of late), Jack, or random fans. A beautiful snowy owl landed in front of me, and left after I removed the letter, not accepting any tip. Interesting. I opened the letter, and read the large, loopy handwriting:

Dear Miss Weasley,

Please stop by my office today during your usual Care of Magical Creatures Lesson. I would be delighted to speak with you, and have tea piping hot for your arrival. I trust that you know the location of my office. This week's password is 'Peach Tartlet'. I shall see you this afternoon.

Sincerely Yours,

Dumbledore, Headmaster.

Later that afternoon, I slowly walked to Professor Dumbledore's office, butterflies fluttering around. It wasn't as if this man was a stranger to me, but that doesn't take away from the fact that, hey- this man is Albus Dumbledore. That's pretty big. I timidly knocked on his door. No answer. Again, and there was no reply. I pushed the door open in a feet of daring and stepped inside. No one seemed to be there, but a few things caught my eye. First was the Pensieve. I would have loved to dive inside and find the answers to all of life's problems, because after all, Professor Dumbledore has all of the answers. But I had a feeling that he would tell me that one of life's problems was figuring out the answers to life's problems on your own, and I couldn't just give up from the get go. Secondly, I saw the golden birdcage that I had seen on many occasions before. But this time, there was something in it. I saw red plumage scattered around the floor around it, and sitting on the perch inside was the bird that I had seen earlier that day, but much worse for the wear. It appeared to be teetering on the edge of falling asleep and falling unconscious. Maybe there wasn't a difference, though. I stepped closer, my curiosity piqued. I knelt down and set my bag on the floor, pushing books, my wand, and various paintbrushes and sketchbooks out of the way until I found my shrunken camera. I quickly muttered a spell and began snapping pictures left and right.

I didn't hear anyone come in.

"Interesting bird, isn't he?"

I spun around quickly, coming face to face with the Headmaster.

"Oh, I'm sorry, sir, I didn't mean to-"

"Nonsense," he said, smiling. "Glad that Fawkes here could fuel your creativity. Have a seat, Emily," he said, conjuring a chair for me to sit in. "Tea?" He chuckled to himself. "Of course. And you'll be wanting honey in it, like your mother?"

"Yes, sir," I said, reluctantly sitting, and keeping my eyes on the peculiar bird. "Sir, what does that inscription mean? The one on the door to the cage?"

"Rara avis in terris," he repeated, "'a rare bird on earth', in Latin," he turned and winked at me, "which I trust that you knew. If I understand correctly, you knew Latin when you were quite younger, before your schooling."

I smiled faintly. "Yes, sir, my mum taught me some. I haven't used it in a long time; it's just a bit rusty."

"Dangerous in the magical world," he said, handing me a saucer. "However, Miss Weasley, I have not called you here to discuss Fawkes or your limited knowledge of Latin."

"Yes, sir."

"If I may be frank, Emily, I'm quite worried about you."

I was just a little taken aback at his statement, and stared at him blankly. "Come again, sir?" In a school this big, why would he be worried about me?

"Your academics have not been up to their usual standard. Which, might I add, were not up to your potential, but we won't get into that now. Now, I understand that you're going through a difficult time, but that is no excuse for poor marks."

"But, Professor, I-"

"Playing the martyr has always been below you, Emily, why start now? I know that you're worried about your father. He's a good friend; I'm worried myself. But don't let yourself fall prey to anxiety." He continued to stare at me, unblinking, as if waiting for my reaction, but I gave none. It took me a few seconds to realize that he wasn't staring at me, but through me, lost in thoughts. "You know," he continued, after some time, "You really can learn a lesson from Fawkes, here. Every now and then, when it's their time to die, their health slowly diminishes, and they die by bursting into flames. Then they rise again, you see, come alive, from the ashes. Watch him." I watched as the bird flopped over and fell off the perch. Three seconds later, the glow of fire filled the room. I jumped up in horror, and walked closer as the flames died down.

"Give him time," Professor Dumbledore said, rising and coming to stand next to me. "Do you see what I'm saying?"

No… "Yes, sir."

He raised his thick eyebrows, quite clearly not buying it. He placed a grandfatherly hand on my shoulder. "Rise from the ashes, Emily. Don't wallow in them. Make yourself new and beautiful again. Begin anew. Learn from your mistakes and move on; don't dwell in the past."

I smiled faintly and watched, as a small grey lump was moving around at the bottom of the cage. Slowly, the lump took form- a beak, head, wings and body. It hopped around, but I didn't quite see what the Headmaster meant about becoming beautiful again. This thing was still as ugly as shite. I looked up at him, questioningly.

"Come back and see me in three or four days, Emily. Tell me what you've learned, and I'll teach you something new. Maybe we'll both learn something from Fawkes, here."

I nodded, and he smiled, taking my saucer from my hands. I knelt down to shrink my camera and place it back in my bag. When I stand, Professor Dumbledore was holding the door open for me. I smiled at him, and began to leave, but he stopped me with a kind hand on my shoulder.

"You're always a pleasure, Emily. Rise from the ashes."

If only I knew how to go about doing that.

Author's note: Gaah! I know, this took forever. Although this took awhile and was pretty frustrating, I think that the final outcome was all right- I'm rather proud of the Emily and Dumbledore scene. Sorry bout the wait, though. Things shall become more regular, I hope. Midterms coming up soon, so maybe I lied. We'll see. Thanks, constant reviewers. I appreciate the encouragement a lot!