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.
FOUR
They were let off on Charing Cross Road, a bustling city street in downtown London; the silent driver helping Aidan to unload his bags from the trunk before driving away. Shops of every kind stretched down both sides of the street, and people of all shapes and sizes ambled past them, occasionally stopping to glance in a window, or else hurrying by, chattering briskly on cellular phones. Overhead, dark clouds were building, blotting out the sun and casting a pall over the city. The occasional low rumble of thunder reached Aidan's ears, blown in on sudden gusts of warm wind; a storm was brewing, and there would be rain before evening.
Aidan hitched his bags up over his shoulders and turned quizzically to the Headmistress, who was still dressed in her business attire. When she had told him they were going to pick up supplies for his summer schooling, he imagined pens, paper, notebooks--things of that nature. None of the businesses on the thoroughfare seemed to sell these items, however.
"We've arrived," McGonagall said, turning and gesturing toward the shops in front of them. "Tell me what you see."
Aidan followed the direction of her hand, puzzled. Before them were two small stores; on the left was a shop specializing in rare and out-of-print books. A tattered, hand-printed sign in the small display window read: "We Buy Used Books." The small entrance door had been propped open with a large and heavy volume, and the musty smell of old paper wafted from inside the shop.
"Er, I see a bookstore," Aidan answered slowly, confused. "Is that where we're going?"
"No," McGonagall replied in patient tones, as if she was trying to help a student in one of her classes come to the correct conclusion. "We want the place next to it."
"The record store?" Aidan asked, now thoroughly confused. Another small shop that had once apparently specialized in old LP's and eight-tracks was situated to the right of the book shop. It looked as though it was now out of business: one window had been boarded up, and a faded sign reading "Closed" was hanging, lopsided, from inside the door.
McGonagall shook her head. "Look again."
Frowning, Aidan did as he was told, staring hard at the two shops, with their cracked and peeling paint, but no revelations were forthcoming, save for the one that the building was in bad repair. "I don't see anything else," he said after a few moments, shaking his head.
"You're quite certain?" the Headmistress asked.
"There's nothing there," Aidan said nervously; McGonagall clearly expected him to be able to see something else. "Can you see it?"
She nodded. "There's a door there, which belongs to a pub called the Leaky Cauldron. The door has been bewitched so that Muggles cannot see it; or rather, so that they choose not to see it."
Aidan turned back to the shops and paused as something caught his attention. For the briefest second, he thought had seen something in his peripheral vision. But when he stared directly at the building, it was not there. Curious, he turned his face slowly away from the shops, trying to catch whatever it was out of the corner of his eye.
"Do you see it?" inquired McGonagall.
"I saw something," Aidan told her, furrowing his brow in frustration. "But only for a second." He stared furiously at the reticent wall between the two shops, willing a door to appear, but the wall scorned his efforts and remained a wall, ugly and dirty. She said I'm not a wizard, Aidan thought, beginning to worry. Maybe I can't see it, either. What if I can't see the door? Would that mean I can't be taught after all, if I can't even do something as simple as see a magical door? What if they decide to send me home?
"Relax," the Headmistress instructed. "Consider this your first lesson: magic is not always about projecting your will onto your surroundings. Often, it consists of choosing to perceive those surroundings in a particular fashion. Focus on what the door should look like. You don't need to know what it actually looks like to imagine it," she added, anticipating his objection.
Aidan took a deep breath and closed his eyes. It was difficult to imagine the door: visions of doors of all types appeared in Aidan's mind, and he was forced to reject them one by one. The kind of door that would fit in this neighborhood would not have a gold knocker, for instance. It would probably be just as scuffed and dirty as the two shops surrounding it, and it would probably be solid wood, rather than metal and glass, to conceal any wizardly activities that might going on inside. He saw a rickety, scratched wooden door in his mind's eye, its dark paint peeling at the edges. Above it hung an old, rusty sign that creaked slightly in the breeze, on which the faded picture of a cauldron was visible, its contents spilling from a hole in the underside.
"I think that should do it," said McGonagall softly, a note of satisfaction in her voice.
Aidan opened his eyes and laughed, relieved. There before them, where previously there had been nothing but a blank wall, was the door he had seen in his head. He had passed the test. Tenatively, he walked over to the door and tried the rusty handle. The door swung inward on creaking hinges, exposing the dark interior of the pub.
"Welcome to the Leaky Cauldron," said the Headmistress, a small smile on her face. "It may require some effort on your part to do some of the things that normal wizards take for granted," McGonagall told him, adding, "Thank you," as Aidan held the door for her, "but as long as you apply yourself, you shouldn't have too many difficulties."
Aidan closed the door behind her and looked around the small room into which they had entered. It was dark and smoky, both from the fire crackling in the large fireplace on one wall and the various patrons sitting at the small wooden tables, smoking pipes. In one corner, a group of wizened old men with beards sat, conversing in hushed voices. One of them nodded and raised his glass to McGonagall as she passed them. She returned his greeting with a curt nod of her own.
Aidan followed McGonagall, puzzled. "Are we in the right place?" he whispered to the Headmistress as they headed toward the back of the room.
She nodded. "The Leaky Cauldron is the entrance to Diagon Alley," she replied.
"Diagon Alley?"
"Think of it as wizard Main Street. We'll be able to buy your supplies from the shops there."
They passed through a small, green wooden door that led to a small, enclosed courtyard whose only occupant was a dented, rusty trash can that stood against a brick wall.
"First, some decent clothes," McGonagall muttered, withdrawing her wand from inside her suit and swirling it at herself. Her clothes billowed for a moment as if a stiff breeze was blowing over them and transformed back into the dark robes in which she had earlier been attired.
"Much better," she said approvingly. "Now, which one was it? I haven't used the London entrance to Diagon Alley in ages," she explained, approaching the brick wall in front of them. "I believe it's this one," she said, tapping one of the bricks three times with her wand. "Stand back."
Aidan looked on expectantly, but nothing happened.
McGonagall frowned. "I'm almost certain that's the correct brick," she said, tapping it again, more insistently. "Ah, that's done it."
There was a grating, scraping sound as the bricks begin to shudder and move, flowing and folding in on themselves to create an opening in much the same fashion as the entrance to the Ministry parking structure. The sound of many voices filtered through the opening, and Aidan followed McGonagall through it, gazing in wonder at his first real glimpse of the wizarding world.
His first impression was that witches and wizards deplored straight lines. The crooked, winding street was full of buildings that would have given a non-magical architect nightmares, with many oblique angles and precarious overhangs that were disconcerting to someone used to squared-off edges and uniform shapes. Some of the structures looked top-heavy, expanding outward as they rose upward, and Aidan was certain that they were somehow magically reinforced, or else they would have toppled to the ground.
Then, too, were the colors: Aidan had never seen so many different colors all in one place; from the paint on the surrounding buildings to the clothing worn by the many witches and wizards browsing through the items for sale. Purple seemed to be a major theme, as did green, but other colors made appearances; here and there was a flash of navy blue or gold, even orange and white. One witch even walked by in robes that shifted from a deep crimson to a dazzling neon pink and back again.
"Some of us have a great deal of money to waste," McGonagall noted disapprovingly after the witch had passed. "Honestly, whatever happened to simple robes?"
Aidan shook his head, too overwhelmed to say anything. In all his years of living in London, he had never known--never even imagined--a place like this could exist. He followed the Headmistress down the street, gaping like a tourist at the shops: Moirae's Crystals, Eeyops Owl Emporium, Quality Quidditch Supplies, an ice cream parlor...
"What's a Sickle?" Aidan asked, pointing to the sign outside Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlor, which flashed, "H O T? T H I R S T Y? Try a BUTTERBEER FLOAT, delicious and refreshing! Only 7 Sickles."
"Sickles, Knuts, and Galleons are all wizard coins," the Headmistress replied. "When we get to Gringotts, we'll exchange the money your father gave to me for them, so that we can purchase your supplies. Gringotts is the wizard bank," she added before he could ask, pointing to a brilliant white building rising above the other shops. "Over there."
The tall stone building certainly had the air of a bank, enormous and impressive, with expensive-looking burnished bronze doors at its entrance. A small, dark-skinned little man with shrewd, calculating eyes, a pointed nose and beard, and long fingers bowed low and held the door for McGonagall and Aidan as they climbed up the stairs before the entrance.
"That's a goblin," the Headmistress whispered to him as they passed over the threshold into the entryway. "Don't stare."
"I thought they were mythical," Aidan murmured, tearing his eyes away from the goblin doorman, who grinned toothily and gave him a sly wink before resuming his post.
"All myths have a basis in fact," McGonagall replied, pushing open a second set of silver doors, on which a poem had been inscribed.
Aidan barely got a chance to look at it before the splendor of the large hall before them drew his attention. Marble pillars supported a domed ceiling, from which hung several gold and silver chandeliers whose glimmering yellow light reflected from the marble floor. A long counter, also of marble, ran down the length of the hall, and several goblin tellers, seated on stools, were busy behind it, counting out coins, scribbling on parchment with long, plumed quills, or conversing with diverse witches and wizards. Behind the counter were several arched doorways, and more goblins were entering and exiting through these, occasionally accompanied by one or more people. A short line had queued up down the middle of the hall, between two crimson velvet ropes, waiting for the next available goblin teller; McGonagall and Aidan joined the end.
"Can they be trusted?" Aidan whispered, eyeing the crafty-looking goblin tellers with uncertainty.
"More so than most humans," McGonagall murmured as the line moved forward. "Goblins love money, and they guard it jealously, which is why Gringotts is perhaps the safest place in the world to keep it."
"No one tries to rob them?"
"No one who wishes to continue enjoying a healthy existence," the Headmistress replied. They were soon at the head of the of the line, with a few people behind them. "Goblins have magic of their own, and the number of curses protecting the vaults below would be a challenge for even the most powerful wizard to bypass."
"Next!" a goblin halfway down the counter shouted.
McGonagall approached the counter, Aidan in tow. "We would like to convert this Muggle money to Galleons," she said, withdrawing five hundred-pound notes from her robes. Aidan goggled; where had Morgan come up with that kind of money?
"Do you have an account here?" the goblin teller inquired, taking the notes in its exceedingly long fingers.
"Hogwarts," the Headmistress replied, handing over a golden key.
The goblin examined it closely. "Very well," he said, almost reluctantly, giving the key back to the Headmistress. "Wait here." He climbed down from his stool and disappeared through one of the arched doorways behind the counter, reappearing after a few moments with a small, jingling bag of coins.
"One hundred Galleons," the goblin teller said, mounting his stool and handing the bag to McGonagall. "Minus a ten-percent exchange fee leaves ninety," he added with a cunning smile, revealing pointed teeth.
McGonagall hefted the small, black satin bag in her hands, staring at the goblin dubiously.
"Standard fee," the goblin said defensively, his smile fading.
"If you say so," the Headmistress replied slowly.
"I do," the goblin said shortly. "Next!"
"Was he cheating us?" Aidan asked as they stepped back out into the afternoon sun.
"I don't know," McGonagall said. "But in my experience, it's always best to act as if they are. Usually they'll admit to it, if you press them. Here." She placed the bag of coins in Aidan's hands. "That should see you through the summer and most of your first year," she told him, descending the steps rapidly. "We'll pick up your supplies and have a spot of lunch before heading to the school."
With the Headmistress's help, Aidan selected and purchased a small metal cauldron, into which he dumped his subsequent purchases: quills and ink, spell books, potion ingredients...
This is all for real! he had to keep reminding himself. The sheer enormity of it all, the realization that something he had once thought was only a fantasy was in fact a reality staggered him.
"You'll want an animal at some point," the Headmistress said as they passed the Magical Menagerie, from which all sorts of screeching and mewling could be heard. "I'd recommend a cat, although an owl or another type of bird is useful as a messenger."
"Uh-huh," Aidan puffed, not really listening, trying to keep up with her brisk pace. His arms were starting to grow tired; he'd been lugging his cauldron and both duffel bags up and down the alley for the past hour.
"Only one more stop," she said, looking back at him. "You need a wand."
Far from the black and white batons that Aidan traditionally envisioned when he heard the word "wand", Ollivander's had boxes and boxes of polished wooden wands, much like the one Angie had brandished at him. Aidan gratefully set his load down as they entered the building, staring up at the piles of boxed wands that reached nearly to the ceiling. Are there that many witches and wizards in the world? he wondered.
"Welcome," said a soft-spoken older man with large, misty eyes, materializing from behind the nearest stack of boxes. "Ah, Minerva, it's been ages. Let's see, you had a mahogany wand, did you not? Nearly eleven inches? You still have it, I hope?"
The Headmistress nodded. "The boy needs a wand," she said, indicating Aidan.
"I see," said Mr. Ollivander, turning his large eyes on Aidan. "First time?" He frowned suddenly as he gazed at Aidan, as if seeing something other than just a thirteen-year old boy. "Curious," he murmured.
"What is it?" Aidan asked uneasily, unnerved by the man's unblinking stare.
"Nothing," he said, waving a hand dismissively and turning back to McGonagall, "only, are you quite certain he will be able to use a wand?"
"No," said the Headmistress. "Are you saying he won't?"
"I'm saying it will be very difficult to find a wand that won't burn to ashes in the boy's hands," Mr. Ollivander said. "A wooden wand won't do at all."
Aidan started. The strange man knew; he had seen, somehow. Does he know what I am?
"I knew he wasn't an ordinary wizard," McGonagall said. "Is he something you've seen before, then?"
Mr. Ollivander shook his head, and Aidan's heart sunk. "No," he said, "I know only that the boy recently produced an Incendiary Enchantment without the aid of a wand. The--afterimage, if you will--of the magic is still hanging about him. I can see the fire in him." He turned to regard Aidan again, rubbing thoughtfully at his chin.
"Is there nothing you can do?" McGonagall asked. "A wand would be most helpful to him in learning to focus his powers, whatever their source."
"Let me see," Ollivander murmured, still rubbing at his chin and staring, with his large shimmering eyes, at Aidan. "I could attempt to create a custom wand. There's no telling if it would take to you, but there's no harm in trying, is there?" His mouth suddenly broke into a smile, his large eyes widening even more with excitement. "I haven't had a challenge like this in quite some time," he said eagerly, rubbing his hands together. "Let's just get your measurements down." He snapped his fingers and a small measuring tape flew into his outstretched hand. "You're right-handed, correct? Hold out your arm."
Aidan obeyed, and the man began bustling about him, noting everything, from the distance between his thumb and forefinger to the circumference of his head. Finally, he seemed satisfied. "I'll need a small deposit," Ollivander said, "but I can have it to you in a week."
Aidan dug in the black satin bag for the money the man wanted. Already he had accumulated several silver Sickles and bronze Knuts, while losing a fair amount of Galleons. He wondered how long the rest of the money would last; what if he had to pay for food at the school? He deposited three Galleons into Ollivander's outstretched hand, resolving not to spend any more unless it was absolutely necessary.
"Good," the man said, wrapping his fingers around the money and turning to McGonagall, "very good. Is there anything else I can do for you? Wand polish? A carrying case, perhaps?"
"No, thank you," the Headmistress replied. "We'd best be going. We'll return in a week."
Mr. Ollivander nodded. "I shall see you then," he said, and vanished behind one of the stacks of wands.
Aidan shook his head as he gathered up his things. "Strange man," he remarked to the Headmistress as they left the shop. It bothered him how easily the man had picked up the fact that he was not a normal wizard; if it was that obvious, how was he ever going to fit in? What if other, darker things, things that he didn't want anyone to know, showed up just as easily to wizards?
"A little," McGonagall agreed. "But you won't find a better wand maker anywhere."
They headed back to the Leaky Cauldron in silence. Aidan was preoccupied with all the things that had happened thus far, the image of Mr. Ollivander saying, "I can see the fire in him," repeating over and over in his head. He hardly noticed when they passed through the brick archway, through the green door, and into the darkness of the tavern.
"Minerva!" someone called, and Aidan looked up to see a toothless old man bustle out from behind the bar and hurry over to the Headmistress, hands outstretched. "How are you?" he asked, shaking her hand vigorously. "It's been a long time."
"I've been keeping busy," McGonagall said with a tolerant smile, nodding at Aidan. "This is Aidan Hayes."
"Hullo," Aidan said as the bartender abandoned his furious shaking of the Headmistress's hand to commence furiously shaking Aidan's.
"Pleasure to meet you, my boy, pleasure," Tom said effusively. "Can I get you anything? Gillywater? Soda? Butterbeer?"
"No," said McGonagall firmly. "We really must be going, Tom; I was just wondering if we might borrow your fireplace?"
"Of course!" Tom said, letting go of Aidan's hand and leading them over to the fireplace, in which a fire was still crackling. "Anything for the Headmistress of Hogwarts."
"Thank you," McGonagall said graciously. She took a small metal urn down from the mantel and opened it. Inside, Aidan saw a greenish, glittering, grainy substance. "This is Floo powder," the Headmistress explained, showing him the contents of the urn. "It is one of the means by which wizards travel from one place to another."
"Never traveled by Floo powder before, eh, lad?" Tom asked, grinning. "You're in for one wild ride!"
"So long as you speak clearly and keep your extremities close, you will be fine," McGonagall said, glancing sternly at the bartender. "Take some," she instructed.
Aidan obediently dug his hands into the urn. The Floo powder felt like sand between his fingers.
"Throw it into the fire," said McGonagall.
Aidan did and immediately stepped backward in surprise as the small, crackling orange fire turned into a roaring, green inferno.
"Take your things and step inside."
Aidan glanced at her uncertainly.
"Go on," she said. "It's quite safe."
"So long as you don't get stuck in the chimney," Tom added. McGonagall glared at the bartender.
Very nervous, Aidan clutched his cauldron and edged toward the fire. Oddly, it didn't feel very warm, but rather like a summer breeze. There's nothing for it, he decided and plunged into the flames. It was one of the strangest experiences he had ever felt, standing in the middle of a fire that licked hungrily at his clothes but did not burn. He turned around and saw McGonagall looking approvingly at him through the fire and smoke.
"Now, repeat very carefully: Hogwarts School, Ravenclaw common room," she told him.
"H-Hogwarts School, Ravenclaw common room," he repeated, trying to keep ash from entering his mouth. Almost immediately, he felt the ground fall out from underneath him as the whole world started spinning with a roar of sound and color. It was like an amusement park ride gone horribly wrong: fire and smoke whipped around him, he felt seasick as his eyes insisted he was spinning while his brain insisted he was not, his eyes stung with ash, he had to close them, and over it all was a continual thunderous roar like the sound of a jet engine running at full speed.
Abruptly, his feet found solid ground again, and Aidan tumbled forward, sending his cauldron and bags flying as he landed hard on a carpeted floor, coughing and covered with soot. The room into which he had fallen was decorated in blue and bronze, with large couches and squashy armchairs arranged around two long, low wooden tables. A boy with dark hair, who had been sitting with his legs propped up on one of the tables while paging idly through a book, looked up in surprise as Aidan pushed himself shakily to his feet.
"Hullo," he said. "All right?"
"Y-yes," Aidan said hoarsely, coughing and trying to clear the ash from his lungs as the boy unwound his tall frame from the chair and stood up, stretching, before coming over to meet him. He stood a few inches taller than Aidan and had long, thick black hair, a lock of which hung carelessly over one of his piercing blue eyes. He was dressed in a black shirt and matching black jeans and had a silver earring in one ear. "Ciarán Dwyer," he said, sticking his hand out.
"Aidan Hayes," said Aidan, taking his hand.
"Pleasure," Ciarán responded, shaking Aidan's hand with a light grip. "I don't think I've seen you around Hogwarts before."
"No," Aidan said, "it's my first time here."
Ciarán looked at him with surprise. "Really? You look too old to be a first year student. Are you transferring from another school?"
"Kind of," Aidan replied. More to distract the older boy from any further inquiry regarding his background than any real interest, he asked, "What are you reading?" For some reason, he very much wanted to impress Ciarán, or at least feel like he was on equal footing with him. He didn't want the other boy to know that no one seemed to think he quite belonged in the wizarding world.
"This?" Ciarán asked, hefting the large volume which bore the title, An Exhaustive History of Magical Theory, Volume XII, on its dark leather cover. "I wasn't reading it, really, just looking at the pictures," he admitted, grinning sheepishly and brushing the stray lock of hair out of his eyes.
"Right," Aidan responded uncertainly. Just then, the Headmistress appeared in the large fireplace with a rush of emerald flame and a puff of green smoke, thus sparing him from having to come up with something more clever to say.
"Ah, I see you've met Mr. Hayes," McGonagall said, stepping out the fire, which settled back into a low, crackling flame as she did so. "He will also be with us for the summer." She turned to Aidan. "You will be rooming with Mr. Dwyer here in Ravenclaw tower," she informed him. "Mr. Dwyer, if you won't mind giving Mr. Hayes the grand tour, I need to make arrangements for his education."
Ciarán nodded. "Yes, ma'am."
"Good," said McGonagall approvingly. "I'll leave you to get settled in," she said. "Dinner will be at six o'clock in the Great Hall." She strode briskly toward the far wall, disappearing through a hole in the floor that appeared at her approach and vanished behind her.
"Well," said Ciarán quietly, sounding as uncertain as Aidan felt. "Shall we get you settled, then?"
Aidan spent the rest of the afternoon exploring the school with Aidan as his guide. He was stunned by the size of the place, until Ciarán explained that it was a castle and showed it to him by taking him to the far edges of the grounds, on the fringes of the surrounding forest.
"We don't go in there," Ciarán said, indicating the thick trees with a nod of his head.
"Why not?" Aidan asked, peering curiously into the dark woods. The fading sunlight did not penetrate very far into the forest, almost as if it, too, had reasons for staying away from the woods.
"Mostly because the centaurs don't like it when people trespass on their land," Ciarán said. "There're other things in there, werewolves and such, that are just as territorial."
"Werewolves?" Aidan asked, looking doubtfully at his companion. "There're werewolves in there?"
Ciarán nodded seriously. "At night, on a full moon, you can hear 'em howling at each other."
Aidan shook his head, adding werewolves to the rapidly-growing list of things he didn't know about the wizarding world. He was beginning to worry that even a lifetime would not be enough to learn it all, let alone a single summer. How much of this stuff do real wizards take for granted? he wondered, the frustrating sense of being the cusp of something wonderful, but being unable to cross over into it, or to even understand it, burning within him.
"Well, that's it," Ciarán concluded after a moment. "You've seen the most important things: the Common Room, the Great Hall, the kitchens, and the Forbidden Forest; the rest'll come with your lessons." He looked at Aidan curiously. "What's McGonagall going to be teaching you, anyway?"
Aidan shifted uncomfortably, looking away from the older boy toward the castle, where the uppermost ramparts had turned yellow-orange in the light of the evening sun. "Oh, you know," he said evasively. "The usual." Everything. He wondered if the other boy could tell, as McGonagall and Ollivander had, that he did not fit in, and fervently hoped that he couldn't.
Aidan finally forced himself to look at Ciarán, who was frowning, puzzled. "Transfiguration?" the other boy asked.
"Er, yeah," Aidan agreed readily.
"Oh. I didn't know she was still teaching that. You're the first student that McGonagall has ever had for the summer."
"Wait, what about you?" asked Aidan, glancing quizzically at the other boy. "Aren't you taking summer lessons as well?"
It was Ciarán's turn to look uncomfortable. "No. I'm just here," he said with a wan smile. "I don't have anywhere else to go."
"Oh," said Aidan sympathetically. "Neither do I. Not really." He felt a pang as he said this, remembering Elisa's tearful good-bye; his conscience told him he was betraying her somehow, by making such an admission. But he couldn't really go back, he reminded himself, not while Morgan was there. Had Ciarán made a similar choice, or did simply have nowhere else to go, no family to take him in during the summer holiday?
I can't exactly ask him, he thought, looking at the dark-haired boy across from him. But it is strange that just when you think you're completely alone, someone else comes along to remind you that you're not. He hoped he and Ciarán could be friends, but he also felt nervous about that possibility, and that confused him.
The two stood silently, each lost in their own thoughts, until the sound of a chiming bell echoed across the grounds.
"It's six o'clock," Ciarán noted, clearing his throat. "We're going to be late for dinner."
"Right." Together the two boys trudged wordlessly back across the grass toward the castle, the fiery orange sun at their backs casting their long, dark shadows before them.
