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.
FIVE
Over the course of the next few days, Aidan's education began to develop a rhythm. He would rise early, tiptoeing around the dormitory so as to avoid waking Ciarán and the other boys, get dressed quietly, and head down to the Great Hall for breakfast. A few other students, who were early risers like himself, were normally already there, talking quietly amongst themselves. Some would pause to nod or greet him cheerfully, but a great deal more stared quizzically at the new student who had inexplicably appeared in their midst near the end of term. The Slytherin table in particular seemed to take his presence as a personal insult and went out of their way to glare at him threateningly or giggle loudly and whisper names at him behind his back in efforts to make him feel uncomfortable.
For his part, Aidan already felt uncomfortable without the Slytherins' help; he felt as if he was drowning in a sea of homework as a whole other world opened up to him. McGonagall had been true to her charge, setting him lessons in subjects that did not require the use of a wand. "Magic is not all spells and incantations, after all," she told him.
So Aidan learned, or tried to, at the hands of the finest instructors Hogwarts had to offer: Professor Aethera for Potions, Professor Hagrid for Care of Magical Creatures, and ghostly Professor Binns for the History of Magic. Morning after morning he would sit alone in the Ravenclaw common room after breakfast, scribbling furiously and drinking enough coffee to fill a small tanker. Ciarán looked on sympathetically, but as a Fifth Year, he had his own problems: a set of standardized exams known as O.W.L.s, or Ordinary Wizarding Levels, which were fast approaching. At night, he and Aidan were often among the last remaining students in the Ravenclaw common room when midnight arrived, and by the end of his first week at Hogwarts, Aidan was beginning to doubt whether or not he had made the right decision in coming to Hogwarts.
When Aidan had first thought of studying at a school for Witchcraft and Wizardry, he had been thrilled at the prospect of a summer spent casting spells, learning to master the elements, and summoning creatures to do his bidding. The reality of magic was more than a little disappointing when held up to this standard, and it was with a sense of disillusionment that Aidan trudged to his fourth History of Magic lesson on the first Thursday after his arrival at Hogwarts. Every muscle in his body ached with exhaustion; he longed for nothing more than a solid eight hours of sleep. How could he possibly continue at this frenetic pace? Yet he would have to, in order to learn everything he needed to know in order to fit in with the rest of the Third Years when term resumed in the fall. He desperately wanted to fit in; he had horrible visions of the other students jeering when he tried and failed to perform some small, simple charm that even a first year student—that even a wizard baby—could do.
Of course, the Ravenclaws he had met thus far had done nothing of the sort; either they were polite and friendly to him or they ignored him altogether, but they never made fun of him. Still, who knew in which house he would end up when the fall came? McGonagall had informed him that he would be Sorted with the first year students, and for all he knew he could wind up in Slytherin. Aidan doubted very much whether the Slytherin students would be sympathetic toward his inexperience. They would probably use it against him. And he would be stuck there, with no way out; he could not just pack his bags and return to the house on Arshield Close.
With a sigh, Aidan approached the classroom in which Professor Binns taught; his bag, which had grown heavier and heavier over the course of the week, slung over one shoulder. Three Slytherin Sixth Years were waiting outside the door; Aidan vaguely remembered their names were Tiernan, Nock, and Nash. When they saw Aidan, they smirked and began to swagger belligerently in his direction. Aidan instinctively tensed and slowed as the Slytherin boys approached him. The lead boy, Tiernan, stood a head taller than Aidan and had a shock of unruly hair as red as Aidan's own, with a broad frame like Morgan's, but none of the paunch. Indeed, it looked as though he worked out regularly; his muscles were clearly visible, even underneath his green robes. His dark eyes glinted maliciously as he paused in front of Aidan while his two associates took up positions behind Aidan. He was completely surrounded, cut off from any chance of escape.
Already knowing how the conflict would end, Aidan nonetheless summoned his courage and faced Tiernan down defiantly. "What do you want?" he asked the older red-haired boy coldly.
"Mind your manners, Hayes," Tiernan drawled languidly. "We're only here to discuss your schooling."
"What of it?" Aidan snapped.
"Rumor has it that you're not a real wizard," the older boy replied lazily, "and as only real wizards are allowed to attend Hogwarts, we want to know what you're doing here."
"If only real wizards are allowed, how'd you manage to get in?" Aidan retorted without thinking.
"We are real wizards, Hayes." Tiernan nodded at his two companions. "Our families have produced nothing but pureblooded wizards for centuries."
"Shame they didn't produce intelligent ones instead," Aidan said, ignoring the stabbing pains in his shoulder as Nock's vice-like grip inexorably tightened. He was incredibly angry for some reason and he was more than willing to vent that anger on the three Slytherins before him, despite their size and the certain folly of entering into a confrontation with them.
The smirk on Tiernan's face faded. "Manners, Hayes," he said in a soft, dangerous tone of voice. "You need to learn your place."
Aidan's heart leapt into his throat as the older boy advanced on him, but he fought down the urge to panic and braced himself for the worst. Nash giggled malevolently behind him as Nock's grip became unbearable.
"This," hissed Tiernan, driving one fist into Aidan's solar plexus, "is your first lesson."
Nock released his grip and Aidan fell to the floor, clutching his stomach, unable to breathe, a sharp pain radiating outward to his extremities, causing stars to explode in his vision. Nash's shrill, nervous laughter was ringing in his ears; Nock was grunting appreciatively, and Tiernan's smug face swam into view as Aidan finally, finally was able to draw in a shuddering breath.
"That's where you belong, Hayes," he sneered. "On the ground. In the dirt."
Suddenly, a jet of blue-white light flashed by Tiernan's startled face, missing it by mere inches, sizzling as it hit the stone wall of the corridor beside him.
"Oops," said a familiar voice.
Tiernan glanced over his shoulder and Aidan saw his lip curl. "Look, boys, another piece of wizard trash. Come to rescue your boyfriend, Dwyer?"
"No," Ciarán replied lightly. "Just practicing my Confundus Charm, Blair. You remember that, don't you?"
Blair Tiernan clenched his fists and turned to face Ciarán. Gasping, Aidan sat up and turned to see Ciarán idly examining the length of his wand, which was pointed directly at the redheaded Slytherin.
"You'll pay for that," Tiernan growled.
"Not nearly as much as Zonko's Zany 'Zine will pay for the pictures of you running around in nothing but a lace pillowcase. You could be their Buffoon of the Month."
Blair took a menacing step forward, but Ciarán shook his head and brandished his wand threateningly. "Not unless you want to repeat your performance," he warned.
"One day, Dwyer, you're not going to have your wand, and when that happens, you'd better watch yourself!" Tiernan turned furiously on his heel. "Come on!" he snapped at his cohorts as he stormed by. Ciarán watched the three of them disappear down the corridor before stepping over to Aidan and holding out a hand to help him up.
"Thanks," Aidan said shortly, wincing as he stood up with Ciarán's assistance. The pain in his stomach had subsided somewhat, but worse were the bitter feelings of disappointment of humiliation churning in his chest. Of all the places he had hoped to find acceptance, Hogwarts had been the most likely to actually provide it, or so he'd thought. He had believed that if he mastered the things a wizard was supposed to know, he would find a place for himself in the wizarding world, but now it looked as if the wizarding world didn't want him, either. And it had taken a real wizard to save him from the emissaries of that aversion; he was not even able to defend himself.
"You all right?" the older boy inquired.
Aidan nodded, unwilling to look his rescuer in the face.
"I should have warned you about Slytherin," Ciarán said with a hint of scorn in his voice. "When I gave you the tour. Bunch of slimy gits, the whole lot. Tiernan's the worst; he's got this stupid idea that only pureblood wizards should be admitted to Hogwarts." Ciarán shook his head. "All of Slytherin do; it's their creed. They don't like anyone who's different from themselves."
"I didn't ask to be different!" Aidan shouted, venting his frustration on the only person available.
"Neither did I," Ciarán told him quietly. "I was born to Muggle parents, so I don't fit the qualification of a pureblooded wizard, either."
"I didn't see them picking on you," Aidan pointed out sharply, angry at the sympathetic tone in the other boy's voice and feeling guilty for taking out his anger on Ciarán.
"They used to. Until I bested Tiernan in Dueling Club with a well-placed Confundus Charm and he ended up thinking he was a house elf for an hour." Ciarán smiled with grim satisfaction. "I've got photographs if he ever decides to try anything, and he knows it."
"Yeah, well, hurrah for you," Aidan muttered, hating himself for being so horrible but plunging ahead anyway. He bent over painfully to retrieve his bag from the floor. "I don't have your extraordinary talent for blackmail."
"Hey," Ciarán said with a touch of annoyance, "I'm trying to help you."
"I know," Aidan snapped, "and I'm supposed to be grateful, right?" He stood up, bag clutched in one fist. "Well, I'm not! I don't want your help! I don't want your pity! I just want to be left alone!" He turned and strode away, fuming, leaving Ciarán standing alone in the empty corridor.
The rest of the day was completely miserable. He had to sit through Professor Binns' lecture on the ancient shamans who helped their clans survive the last ice age, a subject that might have been mildly interesting if the only ghost teacher on the Hogwarts staff wasn't such an incredible bore. The only high point of the evening was when Professor McGonagall found him sitting by himself at the Ravenclaw table and staring moodily at his plate.
"Your wand has arrived," she informed him. He followed her eagerly into the entrance hall, momentarily forgetting his woes. Mr. Ollivander, dressed in a rumpled velvet suit, was waiting expectantly.
"Good to see you again, Mr. Hayes," said the wandmaker warmly, extending one long, thin hand as Aidan reached the floor; the other held a black box with a silver cover. "How do you find your lessons?"
"They're okay," Aidan replied, shaking the man's bony hand. "I mean, they're interesting. For the most part." He eyed the box in Mr. Ollivander's other hand with interest.
Ollivander nodded slowly, following Aidan's gaze with his eyes. "I daresay I've outdone myself this time," he said, releasing Aidan's hand. "The only question is whether you and the wand will be compatible." He held out the box. "The wand chooses its owner, after all. Let's see what it makes of you."
Tentatively, Aidan took the box from the older man, feeling his earlier frustration bubbling up within him. He had not realized that the decision of whether or not he would even have a wand resided, not with him, but the wand itself. How many times would he have to prove himself in the wizarding world? Wasn't it enough that he was here, that he was willing to learn to use whatever power he had? He began to wonder if anyone, or anything, for that matter, would ever accept him as he was. Certainly the Slytherins were only too ready to show their disdain for him, and despite what Ciarán said, that attitude had to come from somewhere. Was it possible that the majority of the wizarding world had an elitist mentality? Was that, perhaps, why they held themselves aloof from the rest of the planet, hiding behind a veil of secrecy and jealously hoarding their powers? Maybe that attitude pervaded even Hogwarts itself; could that be the real reason he was never accepted? McGonagall had not looked too pleased with her assignment.
"Open it," Mr. Ollivander prompted after a moment, interrupting Aidan's thoughts.
Carefully, Aidan removed the top from the box and peered inside. A slender, silver-white wand rested inside, slightly thicker at the base and tapering to a rounded point at the end. It glittered softly in the light of the hall, seeming alive and regarding Aidan with silent interest.
"Twelve inches, tungsten, with a diamond-filament core and a permanent Cooling Charm." Mr. Ollivander looked quite pleased. "I believe it would withstand the heat of the sun itself, if so required. Give it a wave," he instructed.
This was the moment of judgment, then. Aidan felt as if his entire fate hung on whether or not the innocent-looking piece of metal lying before him decided he was worthy of wielding it. With some trepidation, he picked the wand up in his right hand; the cool metal tingled as it brushed his skin, as if an electric current had passed between Aidan and the wand. Uncertainly, Aidan gave it a slight swish.
At first it seemed nothing had happened. Mr. Ollivander's smile faded, replaced by a look of mild disappointment. McGonagall, too, was regarding him with consternation. I'm sorry! Aidan wanted to shout at her. I'm sorry I'm not a real wizard, all right? I'll just pack my things and go, shall I?!
Quite suddenly, a surge of warmth built in Aidan's chest, exploding into a fiery surge that shot down the length of his outstretched right arm and into the wand. The wand began to vibrate as the power rushed into it, glowing with a dazzling white light so bright it cast flickering shadows on the ceiling, and it began to grow hot. Abruptly, a stream of fire erupted from the tip, arcing over the entrance hall and becoming a bright curtain of dancing orange flames suspended in midair, from which sparks cascaded like raindrops, winking out of existence before they reached the floor.
Aidan held onto the wand for as long as he could, but finally the pain grew too intense to bear, not just from his burning hand but from the searing heat pouring through his arm from his chest, and he dropped it, shaking his hand wildly to cool it. The wand fell to the floor with a metallic clatter, its tip smoking slightly as its white-hot glow began to fade. At once, the fiery feeling in Aidan's arm and chest vanished, leaving him gasping and covered with sweat. The curtain of flame disappeared in a puff of smoke, like a candle that had been snuffed out.
Mr. Ollivander looked impressed; McGonagall looked astounded.
"Excellent!" the wandmaker cried triumphantly. "The wand withstood the temperature!"
"D-does that mean it chose me?" Aidan panted.
"It does indeed," said Mr. Ollivander, beaming.
"Even though I'm not a wizard," Aidan murmured uncomfortably, glancing at his right hand, which bore no injury, despite having been burned.
"No, indeed," Mr. Ollivander agreed. "You're something more, I should think. That is no ordinary wand, Mr. Hayes."
Aidan turned back to the older man, who was staring at him with a strange, thoughtful expression on his face. "What do you mean?"
"Every wand has at its heart a magical conductor, if you will. I've used hairs from the tails of unicorns, phoenix feathers, dragon heartstrings, and the like. But your wand has what I would consider a very ordinary core, or perhaps I should say a very non-magical core. In the hands of an ordinary wizard, it will not function; yet in your hands, it clearly does." Mr. Ollivander looked significantly at the still-glowing metal wand lying on the marble floor. "That should not be possible. I am almost tempted to say that your powers are not magical at all; at the very least, they defy magic as we have come to know it and recognize it."
"What does that mean?" asked McGonagall, having regained a measure of her composure. "Will his wand function like a normal wand?"
"I cannot say," the wandmaker replied. "I have never made another like it."
"But then how did you know he would be able to use it at all?" McGonagall inquired.
"I didn't," Ollivander admitted. "I was only trying to use materials with a very high melting point. I came here expecting it to fail, in which case I would not have known how to proceed. None of the magical materials at my disposal will withstand the heat the boy's power generates."
Self-conscious under the weight of their collective stares, Aidan could only stare helplessly back. I don't have answers for you! I don't know what I am! I didn't want to be different! I didn't want any of it! These thoughts kept chasing themselves through his head as McGonagall regarded him uncertainly for a moment, as if unsure of what to do with him. Ollivander was looking at him thoughtfully, with interest rather than fear, and it was he who finally broke the silence that had descended upon the entrance hall.
"I will be very interested to hear how the wand performs," he said. "You will notify me, of course?"
Aidan nodded dumbly.
"Good. Then there's only the matter of the final payment."
"Oh," said Aidan, blinking. Mr. Ollivander was acting as if he saw strange things all the time. "How much do I owe you?"
"Thirteen Galleons," replied the older man. "Less the three you deposited leaves ten."
Wordlessly, Aidan fished the pouch of coins from his pocket and handed Mr. Ollivander the money.
"Very good." The wand maker pocketed the change and turned expectantly to the Headmistress. "If I might impose upon you for the use of a fireplace, Minerva? I really must be getting back."
"Of course," McGonagall said, seeming to come out of a trance. "This way." She led the older man through the doors of the Great Hall, leaving Aidan alone.
Or so he thought.
"Wow," Ciarán began slowly. Aidan turned and saw the dark-haired boy standing on the marble staircase, gazing at him with awe.
"What?" he asked irritably.
"I've never seen anything like that," Ciarán said, descending the stairs slowly.
"Join the club," said Aidan shortly, bending down to scoop his wand into the box, careful to touch it only briefly, lest it ignite again.
McGonagall reentered the hall after a few moments, sparing the two boys from having to make any further conversation. "Under the circumstances, Mr. Hayes, I think it's best if you don't use that until you've learned how to use it," the Headmistress said, nodding at the wand box as she came up to him.
It was easy for Aidan to agree to this, as he never wanted to use the wand again, but rather to hurl it into the lake from the tallest tower of the school. "Yes, ma'am."
"We will begin your spelling lessons tomorrow, then," she continued. "In the meantime, I believe your dinner is waiting."
Aidan was relieved when dinner was over and he was finally able to return to the Ravenclaw common room. Even though he had a mountain of homework to do, he did not want to be left alone with Ciarán, so he headed up to the dormitory instead, changing quickly and climbing into the four-poster bed. The moonlight shone through the tower window, its silver white color reminding him of the wand when it was cool. He pulled the hangings shut so he would not have to look at it, turning over on one side and replaying the events of the day in his mind. He wished he had not been so mean to Ciarán, the only person who had even been remotely understanding, but it was too late now. He'd probably driven the boy away for good, and now he would be alone for the entire summer, as Ciarán was sure to avoid him.
Good, he thought. But he felt a twinge of regret nonetheless. Why? Why do I care anyway? I've only known him for a week.
You know why.
Aidan shook his head, unwilling to purse that line of thought, focusing instead on the image of Blair Tiernan as it was fixed in his head: a sneer curling the other boy's lip as he looked down on him. He would have to watch out for the Slytherin boy and his companions, but only for another week or so, until term ended. I guess that means taking the long way to History of Magic. Not that he minded; he was never exactly anxious to arrive at the most boring subject known to humankind.
He felt his eyes grow heavy as the weariness of four days' worth of missed sleep caught up with him. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he knew he should fight it, should get up and do his homework, but he could not bring himself to leave the soft, warm bed. He was sinking into it, letting the softness and warmness wash over him, sinking…
And abruptly he was falling into an endless void, an utter darkness that stretched on forever. At first he was afraid, terrified he would come crashing down onto the unseen surface of this place, but when no such impact occurred and the seconds dragged onto an eternity, the fear dissipated, and there was only the sensation of free-flight. Time ceased to have meaning; he might have been falling forever or for a heartbeat. There was nothing but the darkness; there had never been anything else. He began to lose all sense of separation from the void, all feeling of being an entity apart of the darkness, but, abruptly, there was a light.
It was a small, flickering light. It seemed to emanating from Aidan himself. He looked down and saw a tiny pinprick of white fire blazing in his chest, a solitary star against the velvet backdrop of the night all around him, and he distinctly felt the night react, contracting around him. The void began to develop substance, he could feel it slithering past him, over his skin, coalescing from inky blackness into a shape; the shape of a man with blonde hair, who had once been tall and strong but now showed signs of neglect, particularly around his midsection. It was Morgan.
"Put it out," Morgan hissed, grasping Aidan's forearms and shaking him fiercely. But the voice was not Morgan's; it was a high, cold voice like the arctic wind, seeming to contain the howl of thousands of souls, stealing away all warmth from the surroundings.
"I can't," Aidan tried to explain. "I don't know how."
"Give it up to me," said the darkness through not-Morgan, pulling Aidan closer, until he could feel the man pressing up against him, breathing hard, running his hands, like ice, all over his body, underneath his shirt, moving ever lower. Aidan suddenly felt limp, as if his mind had fled, and the small point of light burning in his chest flickered and danced as if caught in a sudden breeze.
Aidan felt a sudden stab of fear. The fire was all he had, it was the last thing he possessed that the darkness, that Morgan could not touch—he had to protect it. He struggled against the overpowering grip on his arms, managing to get one arm free and shove the darkness back.
"No," he said fiercely, "you can't have it."
It shifted again, and suddenly Ciarán was standing before him. "Share it with me," he said, moving closer to Aidan and wrapping his arms around him in an embrace.
"No," Aidan said again, but with sorrow this time instead of anger. "I can't."
Ciarán backed away wordlessly and the darkness dissolved.
As if a curtain was rising, stars began to appear. Aidan felt warmth on the back of his neck and turned. The star before him was impossibly immense; it burned white-hot against the surrounding void, nearly blinding him. A fiery plume erupted from its surface, a billowing streamer of flame that slowly resolved itself into the shape of a bird soaring on outstretched wings, carried on the continuous blast of hot air vented from the stellar furnace. It streaked across the short distance separating Aidan from the star and halted only a short distance from his face, trailing orange-white fire behind it.
Three Darknesses, it said in Aidan's mind. One was, one is, and one is yet to come. You must share your fire with the Darkness to overcome it.
"How? Which? When?" Aidan asked, bewildered.
You will decide how. You will decide which. You will decide when. But you must do so quickly; already the Third Darkness approaches.
"Where?" Aidan asked, turning around wildly, looking for the inky curtain that had confronted him earlier.
There.
One by one, the stars that had so recently been uncovered were winking out. Aidan felt a cold certainty within him; the stars were not actually being shrouded this time, as they had been before, they were being snuffed out. And suddenly he realized, as the phenomenon drew closer, that the stars were not stars at all; they were people, thousands of human beings whose inner fires had suddenly, inexplicably, gone out.
You must hurry, the voice urged him as the last of the stars went out, save Aidan's own. Aidan could only stare in frozen terror; he could not move, he could not breathe, he could not think as the darkness roared with savage triumph and engulfed him. The warmth on the back of his neck, the hot breeze blowing from the star, the firebird--all were suddenly no more. Aidan turned and saw the star below glowing like a spent coal, its fires quenched. The pinprick of light in his chest was also fading, leaving nothing but a gaping hole and a sense of profound sorrow where it had been.
The Third Darkness is here…
He awoke with a start and sat up, breathing heavily. The dream images were still with him, along with the sense of urgency. The room was dark, and for one wild moment Aidan feared the darkness from his nightmare had overtaken him here, in the waking world. Desperately, he flung back the hangings and the moon came into view, its soft light illuminating the dormitory. Aidan sighed with relief. It had only been a dream. He lay back on his pillow, staring up at the covering over the bed, trying to shake the feeling of foreboding that had gripped him. It was only a dream, he kept repeating. But it was a long time before he could get back to sleep.
