Phoenix Song

WARNING: This story contains strong language and strong situations.  If you are under the legal age of consent for your state, province, territory, or country, or if scenes of violence and strong language offend you, turn back now!

LAWYERS NOTE:  I do not own the Harry Potter characters, only my own.  If one or all of the characters desire to return to J.K. Rowling's universe, they are welcome to do so at any time.

TWO

      It felt as though he'd been running forever, driven by the insistent, repetitive desire in his head to get away, to get as far away as possible.  His lungs burned, every breath was an agony, his muscles fairly screamed with the exertion, but he could not stop, he would not stop.  He ran, not just to distance himself from the house and the threat of apprehension, but to escape the jumbled emotions that roiled and seethed just below the surface of his mind: fear, guilt, panic, sorrow, shame--all of these threatening to overwhelm him if he stopped.  Street after street passed by, nothing more than blurs in Aidan's awareness as he pressed on in the fading light.  It was not until he crossed the bridge and entered the park that he finally gave out, collapsing against the trunk of a large willow tree, gasping and sobbing convulsively, unable to continue.

      Gradually, as Aidan's pulse slowed and the insistent thump of his heartbeat quieted, he began to realize the enormity of what he'd done.  For seven years, Aidan had lived in the Sears house, captive to Morgan's attentions, loathing himself more and more each time for not fighting back, for letting the man have his way.  Every time was worse, not just the anxiety leading up to it, but the aftermath, the horrible, wrenching sorrow as Aidan felt his innocence, his hope--every good thing about him--leached away, leaving a gaping void where they had been.  How he had longed to tell someone, Elisa, the social worker, his friends--but Morgan told him he would lose the only home he had if that happened.  So he had kept quiet, but a voice in the back of his mind had screamed and railed at every outrage, growing louder and more insistent with every passing year, every occurrence, until, finally in one literally explosive outburst, Aidan had fought back.

      To the west, the enormous ruddy disc of the sun had already sunk halfway below the horizon in the pale sky, throwing a rust-colored light over the surrounding landscape and casting the scattered wisps of cloud overhead into shadow, so that they looked like trails of smoke rising from a burning sky.  Aidan wiped his wet face with the back of one hand, staring curiously at the other in the fading orange light.  The setting sun had imbued his skin with the same fiery glow it had just before it burst into flames in his bedroom.  He flexed his fingers experimentally, wondering if the fire that had poured from his fingers had been real.  But how could it have been?  In the twilight, his hands looked unreal, and the house seemed so far away after his seeming marathon, that he began to doubt.

      A fluttering of wings overhead drew his attention upward, away from his hands.  Perched on a lower branch of the tree, gazing down solemnly at him, was an owl.  This by itself was hardly abnormal, owls being nocturnal, but the envelope clutched tightly in its beak was another matter.  Curiosity momentarily distracting him from his other feelings, Aidan got to his feet, staring inquisitively at the bird which was now only a foot away.  It regarded him impassively, its large eyes unblinking.  Tenatively, Aidan reached out a hand for it, expecting it to fly away; but instead, the owl dropped the envelope into his outstretched hand and began preening itself.

      Aidan stared, bemused, first at the owl, which was now ignoring him completely, and then at the envelope.  In the last rays of fading sunlight, Aidan could just make out an address written neatly in purple ink on the front:

      Mr. A. Hayes

      5 Arshield Close

      London,

      London SW15 1, GB

      Even more puzzled than ever, Aidan looked up at the owl.  "Who...?" he began, but with a sudden rustle of feathers, the owl took flight, gliding silently over the grassy field, out of the park.  Aidan watched it go, thoroughly confused.  Who did he know that delivered letters by owl?  And how would they know to find him here? 

      Across the street, a lamp flared to life.  Aidan trotted in its direction, his mind filled with questions.  The only good thing, he reflected as he checked to ensure no cars were coming before crossing the street, was that it kept him from thinking about other things.  He was only dimly aware of his feelings, his barely-supressed panic at having no food and no place to go, his confusion at the night's events; everything was overridden by his desire to know more about the strange letter.

      The harsh light of the street lamp bathed the envelope in a yellow light as Aidan held it over his head.  The purple ink sparkled as he turned the envelope this way and that, attempting to glimpse its contents.  On the back of the envelope was a purple wax seal, in which two stylized letter M's had been impressed, but there were no other external indicators of what was inside.  Finally, Aidan gave up and tore the envelope open, extracting a single sheet of parchment.  Written on the front of the page, in the same neat handwriting as the address on the envelope, were the words:

13 June 2024

Dear Mr. Hayes,

      It has been brought to our attention that you performed a highly-complex, highly-dangerous Focused Incendiary Enchantment at your place of residence at approximately seven minutes past seven this evening, and that a member of the non-magical community was its intended target.

      While no lasting harm was afflicted on the victim, we are required to inform you that your actions were in violation of both the Decree for the Restriction of Underage Wizardry (Paragraph C) and section 13 of the International Confederation of Wizards' Statute of Secrecy.  Further, although both documents provide for the use of magic in potentially life-threatening circumstances, we have judged that your situation did not meet the definition of such an "exceptional condition" as set forth in clause seven of the aforementioned Decree.  Therefore, pursuant to Paragraph C of the Decree for the Restriction of Underage Wizardry, you are hereby expelled from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.  Ministry of Magic representatives will be dispatched shortly to confiscate and destroy your wand.

      You may request, in writing, a hearing to appeal this decision within thirty days of your receipt of this notice.  If no response is received within that timeframe, the decision will be considered to be final and binding.

      Regards,

      J. Everard O'Malley

      Improper Use of Magic Office,

      Ministry of Magic

      Aidan read through the letter twice to make sure his eyes weren't playing tricks on him.  It has to be a bad joke, he thought angrily, crumpling the parchment into a ball.  Everyone knew there was no such thing as magic, although Aidan had, when he was younger, fervently wished there was; magical powers might have spared him some torment, except that apparently what Morgan had been doing to him didn't qualify as an exceptional situation giving him the right to defend himself.  They obviously didn't know how much it had cost him, all those years, doing nothing at all to prevent it.  He shook his head, fighting down the rising storm of emotions, glancing down as the smell of smoke reached his nose.

      The letter was smoldering at the edges, curling and blackening as it did so.  Startled, Aidan dropped the parchment, which continued to smoke as it fluttered lazily to the ground.  He had been doing it again, without thinking: the Incidendiary Enchantment.  No, he thought, shaking his head and backing fearfully away from the parchment as if it was a poisonous snake, there's no such thing as magic.  No matter how much he wanted it to be real, it wasn't.  He'd learned that nothing was going to intervene in his life to make it better, nothing was going to save him.  There was nothing special about him.  Except that I can start fires with my bare hands...

      Aidan took a deep, steadying breath, tearing his gaze away from the charred parchment that lay facedown on the pavement.  Instead he looked up at the deep blue sky, in which the stars were already winking into existence, their fires reduced to the merest pinpricks of cold light by the intervening distance.  A sudden sence of peace descended upon him as he gazed at the tiny lights twinkling silently down at him, as if they were the watchful eyes of old friends who came out, night after night, to check up on him.  He wondered why people went to so much trouble to blot them out, with their harsh, glaring city lights, thus depriving themselves of the security that came with knowing that, even in the darkest night, a person was not alone.

      Of course, probably not everyone feels that way, he reasoned, only mentally unstable people who half-believe in the impossible.  For the third time that day, Aidan stared at his hands, but they revealed no more than they had before.  He wondered if it was a dream, if he was asleep in his bed, but no amount of pinching had any effect, and he had no desire to try some of the more extreme tests, such as leaping from the bridge to see if he awoke before he hit the ground.  He sighed, disappointed and suddenly weary.  It would have been nice to discover the day's events--indeed, the whole of his life with Morgan--had been only a dream.

      Sighing again, he trekked back into the park, to the large willow tree, and surveyed it thoughtfully.  If he could climb up into the crook where all the branches came together, he would have a pretty secure spot to fall asleep.  It would be uncomfortable, but he would be well-hidden by the low-hanging branches, unless someone came to stand right at the foot of the tree.  Grabbing at the branch on which the owl had landed, Aidan hoisted himself into the tree, settling in the spot he had chosen.  He felt tired; the events of the day had been a strain on both body and mind, and, despite the hard wood pressing against his back, he soon drifted off into a dreamless slumber.

      Only to be roused by a sharp pain in his side.

      "He's alive after all," someone said in a satisfied tone as he opened his eyes blearily.  His whole body felt stiff and cold, and he wondered why until the branches of the tree resolved themselves in his vision.  He winced as he sat forward, rubbing his sore neck while his back complained loudly, with several sharp pains, that it wanted a nice, soft bed from now on thank you very much.

      "Mornin'," said a cheerful female voice, nearly startling Aidan out of the tree.  He glanced down to see a young woman dressed in flowing robes staring up at him, her short, bright, spiky blonde hair glinting in the first rays of morning sunlight.  She held a long, thin piece of polished wood in her hand, and kept it pointed directly at him.  "No sudden moves, now," she cautioned, "although I'd say you're not gonna be in much shape for that, anyway, after spending all night in a tree."  She grimaced sympathetically as Aidan attempted to stand up, wincing again.

      "Who're you?" Aidan croaked, his throat parched.

      "Angela Parish," she introduced herself, "or Angie for short.  And you're Aidan Hayes."

      "Your accent's funny," Aidan said blankly, his mind still sluggish with interrupted sleep.  How did she know his name?  And why was she brandishing that stick at him as if it was a weapon?

      "I'm from America," she explained.  "Only just moved here two years ago."

      Aidan blinked, his train of thought slowly building up steam.  "America?  What d'you want with me?"

      "Well, the Minister'd like to have a word with you," she replied conversationally, "and so I'm here to um...'fetch' you," she finished, trying to affect something of a British accent and failing at it.  "How was that?"

      Aidan ignored her question, focusing instead on her earlier statement, suddenly fearful.  "The Prime Minister?"  Had his attack on Morgan gotten the attention of the Prime Minister himself?

      Angie laughed, which only served to irk Aidan.  "No," she said, "the Minister of Magic."

      Aidan blinked.  She was a lunatic; she must be, talking in some strange accent about magic, waving her stick in the air like that, and dressed in robes--who in their right mind would wear robes in public?  He edged away from her, trying not to do anything that would cause her to climb up the tree after him.

      "Goin' somewhere?" she asked lightly.

      Aidan shook his head.

      "Good," she said.  "Why don't you come down, then?"

      "No, thanks," Aidan said coldly, hoping she would get the message.  Go away, he thought fiercely.

      "That wasn't a request so much as a chance, Aidan."

      "A chance for what?"

      "For you to avoid this," she replied, waving the polished wooden stick at him.

      "What th--!" Aidan cried out as he suddenly found himself weightless, the bottoms of his shoes scraping the branches of the willow tree as he floated over them, following the motion described by Angie's stick--magic wand, Aidan realized--until he was deposited gently onto the grass.

      "How...?" he breathed, scrambling backwards until his back was against the trunk of the tree, all the while staring at her in disbelief.

      She laughed again, advancing on him, wand outstretched menacingly.  "Magic."

      Breathing fast, Aidan held up his hands, expecting to see them wreathed in flames, but they looked the same as always.

      "Ah, ah," Angie clucked, wagging a forefinger at him.  "I've heard what you can do with those."

      "Not on purpose," he said defensively, even as he tried desperately to will them to burn.  But the surge of fury which seemed to be requisite to their ignition eluded him, buried underneath a sudden fear of what Angie would do to him.

      She paused, a foot away, gesturing toward his sides with her wand.  "Then let's try to avoid any accidents.  Put 'em down."

      Slowly, Aidan lowered his hands.

      "Good boy," Angie said, cocking her head toward the street, where a bright maroon car that resembled a Rolls-Royce was parked.  "This way." 

      "Are you a witch?" Aidan asked her carefully, remaining where he was.

      "Of course," she replied casually, as if being a witch was the most common thing in the world.  "Aren't you a wizard?"

      Am I? Aidan wondered.  What am I?  Out loud, he said, "I don't know."

      "I'd say that anyone who could produce an Incendiary Enchantment was a wizard," she remarked wryly.  "Especially if you nearly barbecue your dad in the process."

      "He's not my dad!" Aidan shouted, the fury he had been seeking moments earlier rising unbidden within him now.  "He's a filthy, disgusting man, and he deserved what he got!"  His cheeks were flushed, his brow was burning, and as he looked down, he saw the faintest orange glow surrounding his hands, which had been clenched into fists.

      Angie evidently noticed this, too, because she apologized hastily.  "I'm sorry," she said, and she sounded like she meant it.  "I didn't know."

      Aidan wanted to be angry with her, but he could not bring himself to take his fury out on her.  It wasn't Angie that he was angry at, anyway, it was Morgan.  "Forget it," he muttered, looking away, the rage leaking out of him as quickly as it had come, leaving behind an empty void.  He was suddenly very tired.

      "I still have to take you in," Angie said tentatively.

      "I know," Aidan answered wearily.  "I'll go quietly."  At least it wasn't the police who were after him, although Aidan didn't know precisely what this Minister of Magic wanted with him.

      Angie considered him for a moment, then let her wand drop to her side.  "I'll trust you," she decided, holding out her free hand.  Aidan took it and she led him to the car, where the driver, a man dressed in an impeccably-pressed emerald suit, waited.

      "Where're we going?" he asked as he climbed into the back seat of the long, elegant vehicle.

      "Downtown London," Angie answered, settling into the passenger seat up front.  The driver closed both doors firmly and strode around the front of the car.  "To the Ministry of Magic."

      It was the strangest ride Aidan had ever experienced.  The car sped through the streets, its driver seemingly oblivious to the speed limit, traffic signals, parked cars, pedestrians--yet they never struck anything or anyone, nor did anyone seem to notice the violently maroon car as it passed by.  Behind them, the sun was halfway over the horizon, climbing steadily into the ruddy sky.  Aidan was normally a morning person, but he found it hard to be excited about the idea of a new day, considering everything that had happened.

      "We're here," Angie announced at last, and Aidan looked up from his hands, which had become something of an obsession for him since last night, to see they had arrived in the middle of what must have been the most run-down neighborhood in all of London.  A few worn brick buildings surrounded them, their facades badly crumbling, while in the street several rusting cars had been parked haphazardly.  A few pedestrians walked hurriedly up the dirty sidewalk, looking neither left nor right, but staring fixedly ahead as if refusing to acknowledge the existence of such an unwholsome place.  It suddenly dawned on Aidan how easy it would be for any number of people to overlook the existence of magic by their sheer stubborn unwillingness to see it; the question of why he never noticed magic before now had been bothering him since they left the park.

      "Don't worry," Angie assured him as the car rolled silently past a dirty man who was swaying drunkenly on the sidewalk, "it's just a front." 

      The street ended abruptly at a red brick wall, which evidently belonged to a large, abandoned warehouse of some kind.  The windows high overhead were dusty, and some of them had been cracked and broken, probably by the same people who had tagged the wall with large, scrawling graffiti.  A forlorn-looking telephone booth stood to one side, in front of an alley containing an overflowing dumpster.  The car rolled up to the telephone booth and stopped.

      Aidan began to unbuckle his seatbelt, expecting to get out, but Angie turned and shook her head.  "Watch," she said.

      The driver reached up and pressed a button on a small device affixed to the rear-view mirror; the next second, the bricks in the warehouse wall were shifting and scraping, folding in on themselves to reveal a dark passage that slanted downward.  The car entered the passageway, which sealed itself after them, plunging them into darkness until the driver switched the headlamps on.  They were in some kind of winding tunnel that led down into the earth, how far Aidan couldn't tell, but gradually the tunnel leveled off and a short distance away, golden light spilled through an arched opening, which led into the most exquisite parking structure Aidan had ever seen.  Two rows of gleaming cars, in all colors and sizes, and all of them very expensive looking, ran the length of the garage, but it was not a garage in the common sense: two massive golden chandeliers hung from the domed ceiling, filled with hundreds upon hundreds of flickering candles whose light glinted from the silver and gold patterns inlaid in the marble floor.  The driver carefully backed the car into one of the vacant spaces on the right hand side before helping them out of the vehicle.

      "Beats the hell out of anything we've got back home," Angie said, yawning and stretching as she looked around.

      Aidan shook his head in wonderment; he was willing to bet even the royal family didn't have access to the kind of money it must have taken to build a place like this.

      "Let's go," Angie said briskly, following the driver toward a door in the far wall.  They emerged in a small hallway, where several people were milling about, or entering or exiting the nearly twenty lifts that took up one wall.  As each lift came to rest with a clatter, its golden grilles would rattle open and people--witches and wizards, all of them, Aidan surmised with a thrill of excitement--would spill out.  "We get on one of these," Angie said, grabbing Aidan by the shoulder before he could wander away.  "Thank you, James," she added haughtily to the driver, "that will be all."

      The driver nodded slightly, looking annoyed, and strode away.  "His real name's Prang," Angie told Aidan as they pressed forward with the other witches and wizards waiting for the lift, "but I love to make fun of him; you know, pretend to be snooty British royalty and order him around.  No offense," she added hurriedly.

      But Aidan's mind was reeling too fast for him to pay much attention to her statement.  The grille clattered shut, and with a shudder, the lift started upward.  Aidan glanced around at the various other occupants, who were standing quietly, or checking their watches, or talking in low voices amongst themselves.  Some of them were dressed in robes of various colors, blue and scarlet and black, and some in suits of similar color; these last Aidan would never have known were wizards, had they not been here, in the Ministry of Magic.

      "Level seven," said a cool female voice, seemingly from the lift itself, "Department of Magical Games and Sports, incorporating the British and Irish Quidditch Leage Headquarters, Official Gobstones Club, Triwizard Tournament Headquarters, and Ludicrous Patents Office."

      Aidan blinked.  He had understood less than half of what the voice was talking about; but apparently, everyone else knew.  As the grilles slid open with a metallic bang, a few of the witches and wizards in scarlet robes exited.  After a moment, the grilles crashed shut and the lift vibrated as it rose upward once again.

      "Level six, Department of Magical Transport, incorporating the Floo Network Authority, Broom Regulatory Control, Portkey Office, and Apparation Test Center."  Aidan looked around, wondering who had made sense of that gibberish, but no one moved and the lift continued upward without stopping.

      Several of the important-looking witches and wizards in suits got off on level five, which had something to do with "International Magical Cooperation."  Only Aidan, Angie, and three others remained on the lift as it shuddered upward.

      Level four had something to do with magical creatures, but no one got off there.  On level three, however, everyone but Aidan and Angie exited the lift.  He looked inquiringly at her.

      "Straight to the top," she said, pointing upward.

      "Level two," the cool female voice intoned, "Department of Magical Law Enforcement, including the Improper Use of Magic Office, Auror Headquarters, and Wizengamot Administration Services."  The lift continued upward until the voice announced, finally, "Level one," and left it at that.  The lift doors rattled open for the last time, and Angie and Aidan stepped out into a short corridor with a marble floor.  A door inset with frosted glass stood closed at the end of the hall, and golden letters inlaid in the glass spelled out:

      PERCY WEASLEY

      Minister of Magic

      Angie led him down the hall to the door, opening it and ushering him inside.  On the other side of the door was a small carpeted room, with several chairs arranged on one wall, opposite a large, floor-to-ceiling window that looked down on London--but aren't we undergound? Aidan wondered--and a desk at the far end, at which a thin, severe-looking old witch sat, her silver hair pulled back into a tight bun.  She surveyed them both impassively over her square spectacles as they approached.  Behind her, in one corner of the room, was a second door, made of polished oak, which was also closed.  A bookshelf stood in the other corner of the room, and Aidan could make out some of the titles on the spines: "Concessions in International Magical Law", "Recent Developments in Muggle Relations", and "Collected Judgments of The International Confederation of Wizards" were among them.

      "This is the boy the Minister wanted to see," Angie told the old witch.

      "Very well," the witch said shortly, waving at the chairs.  "Have a seat over there."

      Rather than sit, Aidan wandered over to the window, through which he could see the street some distance below, but it wasn't the same street as the one they'd come in on.  This street was in the middle of an industrial area and was packed full of cars and people.  The sun was now well up, and its golden yellow light reflected from the glass of the buildings across the way, while large, puffy clouds slowly rolled by overhead.

      "Aren't we underground?" he asked as Angie joined him at the window.

      She nodded.  "Magical windows, of course."

      "The Minister will see you now," the old witch announced, and at the same moment, Aidan heard the oak door of the Minister's office open.  He turned around to see the Minister of Magic, a tall, slender man with thinning red hair and glasses beckon to them from his office.

      "Go on," Angie said.  "It's you he wants to see."

      Suddenly nervous, Aidan swallowed and  walked over to the tall man, who smiled and said, "You'll be Aidan Hayes, then?  Good.  Come on in."  He stood to one side so Aidan could enter his office, closing the door behind him. 

      The office of the Minister of Magic was a large, dark room with plush, deep carpeting.  The primary source of light came from an enormous fireplace embedded in one wall, where a fire was crackling merrily, despite the heat outside.  Several paintings and portraits adorned the walls, and, much to Aidan's surprise, the occupants of the latter were looking at him with interest, waving or nodding in acknowledgment.  A large, elaborate wooden desk took up one end of the room; every corner had been carved into the shape of an animal--lion, badger, raven, and serpent--which supported the desk proper.  A bookcase, similar to the one outside, stood behind the desk, filled with books.

      "Have a seat," the Minister invited, indicating the two plush leather armchairs that stood facing the desk.  Hesitantly, Aidan sank into one as the Minister sat on the edge of his desk, his glasses reflecting the orange light of the fireplace as he regarded Aidan thoughtfully.  "Do you know who I am?" he asked Aidan at length.

      "The Minister of Magic," Aidan replied hoarsely, his face flushing under the man's gaze.

      The Minister nodded slowly.  "And what is it that I do?"

      "I don't know," answered Aidan, wondering where this line of questioning would end.  The chair felt overlarge, making him feel very small by comparison; this, combined with his ignorance of the wizarding world, left Aidan feeling very much like a child, a feeling he hated.

      "In the most basic sense, I am the head of the magical community," the Minister said.  "It's a bit more complicated than that, but that sums it up.  I oversee the day-to-day affairs of the wizarding world, as it exists in Britain."

      "Like the Prime Minister," Aidan murmured, remembering his earlier conversation with Angie.

      "In a way," said Minister Weasley.  "But I can assure you, the Prime Minister has never had to deal with some of the things I handle on a daily basis."

      "Like what?" Aidan asked, curious despite his uncertainty.

      "Petitions from vampires to be given full 'human' status, along with the appertaining rights; questions about werewolf legislation and its enforcement," the Minster said, rising and walking around to the back of his desk, where a large leather executive chair was situated.  "Wizard children who manage to cast extremely complex Incendiary Enchantments and use them to attack their legal guardians," the Minister added pointedly, settling into his chair.  "Things of that nature."

      "It wasn't my fault," Aidan said.  "I didn't know--I didn't even try.  And anyway, he was going to..."  He trailed off, unable to articulate to the Minister of Magic exactly what Morgan had intended.

      "As to that, you are correct," the Minister said, "you didn't know."  Aidan looked up at him curiously.  "That's what I wanted to talk to you about, Aidan, to try and find out why you didn't know."  He stared inquisitively at Aidan.  "Did you know, for instance, that wizard children usually begin their magical education at the age of eleven?"

      Aidan shook his head.

      "Did you know that all wizard children, upon reaching the age of eleven, are accepted at one of the European wizarding schools and are notified of this acceptance by owl?"

      "No," Adam answered.  "I've never gotten an owl until last night."

      "I see," the Minister said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.  "There seems to have been an oversight in your case, Aidan.  You should have received your owl notifying you of your acceptance at Hogwarts or another wizarding school when you were eleven.  For some reason, you didn't, and I intend to find out why."

      "Okay," Aidan said, uncertain of how to respond.

      "I have sent for the Headmistress of Hogwarts, the largest wizard school in Great Britain," the Minister continued, leaning back in his chair.  "Hopefully, she will be able to shed some light on the situation.  Ah, I believe that's her now," he said, rising as someone knocked on the closed office door.  "Come in!" he called.

      The severe witch poked her head through door as she opened it.  "Headmistress McGonagall is here to see you."

      "Send her in," the Minister said, rubbing his hands together.  A moment later, a formidable looking witch in dark black robes and matching pointed hat strode through the door, glancing briefly at Aidan before nodding to the Minister of Magic.

      "Minister," she said curtly.

      "Minerva," the Minister replied evenly.  "Have a seat, won't you?"  He watched as she sat down on the edge of the vacant chair in front of his desk before sitting down himself.  "You know why I've called you here?" he asked.

      "I am aware of the reason," she replied stiffly.

      "It looks as though you've missed one," Minister Weasley said calmly, indicating Aidan with a tip of his head.  "As you know, last night the boy produced an Incendiary Enchantment in front of a Muggle."

      McGonagall nodded, her expression stony.

      "As this was a blatant violation of both the Decree for the Restriction of Underage Wizardry and the International Confederation of Wizards' Statute of Secrecy, Jesse O'Malley rightly attempted to expel Aidan.  And do you know what he discovered when he made that attempt?"

      McGonagall's look grew stonier, so that her face appeared to be carved from living rock, but she remained silent.
      "He discovered that Aidan was never enrolled at Hogwarts, or at any other wizarding school.  Why do you suppose that is?  Did the owl with his acceptance letter get blown off course, or was it struck by lighting, by any chance?"

      "No," the Headmistress replied tersely, staring at Aidan with piercing, green-gold eyes.  "No owl was sent."  Aidan looked away, afraid that the older woman could see straight into his mind, exposing the darkness and fire that raged there, locked in mortal combat, to her stern gaze.

      Weasley looked surprised at McGongall's admission.  "Why not?" he asked, frowning.  "Why wasn't this boy sent a letter of acceptance on his eleventh birthday like all of the other wizarding children?"

      "Because he was not accepted at Hogwarts," she replied coolly, her stern features softening slightly as she regarded Aidan kindly through her silver-rimmed spectacles.

      "What are you saying?" the Minister demanded.  "Have you suddenly developed some standards, Minerva, after all your talk about equal education for all wizard children?"

      "No," McGonagall snapped, suddenly frowning, her nostrils flaring dangerously, "that is not what I'm saying.  The boy was not accepted at Hogwarts because he is not a wizard."