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.

SEVEN

Ciarán did not say anything over the course of the next few days concerning their encounter in the Transfiguration classroom, and despite his resolve, Aidan could not bring himself to say anything, either. In part, this was because both he and the older boy were hard at work, one with O.W.L.s and one with a small mountain of homework, but mostly it was because Aidan didn't know what to make of his feelings, which seemed to change on an almost-continual basis. One moment, he was afraid to even think about "the kiss," as it became in his mind, and the next, he felt giddy as a result of it. It didn't help that Ciarán treated the whole thing as if it never happened; if the older boy would only give him some direction, some inkling of his own feelings on the matter—but no, he was too engrossed in his exams, and they barely saw each other at all. Before Aidan realized it, a week had passed since "the kiss" and he and Ciarán still had not discussed it.

So it was that Aidan rose early on Saturday morning, intending to corner the older boy and settle the matter once and for all. To his surprise, many of the other Ravenclaw boys were already bustling about the dormitory, packing their chests in preparation for the train ride home. He had not forgotten that the summer holiday officially began that day, but he had not expected the other boys, who were usually loathe to climb out of bed, to approach the morning, let alone a weekend morning, with such fervor. Posters were being stripped from the walls, wardrobes emptied, stray toads and cats being chased down, robes hastily stuffed into chests, along with cauldrons, wands, books, quills, the occasional stray toad or cat (though quite accidentally)—in short, Ravenclaw tower was more active than it had been since Aidan arrived.

He changed quickly and made his way downstairs into the common room, hoping it would be less noisy, to find it empty save for a certain older boy sprawled on the couch before the fireplace, nose buried in a book. Swallowing his sudden anxiety, Aidan approached the couch, noting that the title of the book in Ciarán's hands was An Exhaustive History of Magical Theory, Volume XXI.

"Still just looking at the pictures?" he asked.

"What?" Ciarán lowered the book and sat up quickly as he saw who was addressing him. "Oh. Er, yeah."

"Does a book like that even have pictures?" asked Aidan curiously.

The older boy looked somewhat embarrassed. "Um, no."

Aidan looked at the older the boy inquiringly.

"I guess I'm afraid that if people thought I was actually reading a book like this…" He trailed off and looked at Aidan uncertainly.

"They would think you were smart?" Aidan finished for him.

"Too smart," the older boy corrected. "Everyone wants to be smart, but not so smart that they stick out from everybody else." He held up the book. "This isn't exactly light reading. But it's interesting."

"Oh." Aidan well remembered how he never tried to excel in any of his lessons, when he had been in public school, scraping average marks as a matter of choice rather than an indication of what he could do (except in the case of arithmetic, where his average marks were a perfect indication of his skills), for the very reason Ciarán had mentioned. No one wanted to stand out in school; the ones who did stand out, for whatever reason, usually ended up ostracized, or worse. I don't want that to happen to me, he thought, remembering the look on Blair Tiernan's face as he stood over him outside the History of Magic classroom, utter scorn curling his lip into an ugly sneer.

But it's not going to. Because I'm not going to be that way.

There was a moment of silence as both boys shifted uncomfortably, looking away from each other. Finally, Aidan summoned up his courage. Better tell him now, before I lose my nerve. "About the other night…" he began.

"That was…an accident," Ciarán interjected, going slightly red. "I'm sorry if I…I don't know what came over me."

"Neither do I," Aidan said hurriedly, relieved that the older boy felt as uncertain about it as he did. "Er…I've never—um—I'm not…that way," he floundered, feeling as if clarification was necessary. At least I hope not, he added silently.

"Oh," Ciarán said hastily. "Neither am I."

Then why did you kiss me? Aidan thought. But he kept quiet. After all, I'm not being honest, either.

"How are your lessons getting along?" Ciarán asked abruptly, breaking the awkward silence.

"Fine," Aidan said, grateful to be given another topic to discuss; the current one was thoroughly disconcerting. "I still have a lot of ground to cover before the fall."

"I've been meaning to ask you about that," the dark-haired boy said thoughtfully. "You're starting from the very beginning, aren't you?" He brushed that stray lock of hair out of his blue clear blue eyes and stared curiously at Aidan.

It was Aidan's turn to look uncomfortable. "Yes," he admitted. He had been so focused on covering up his past and his feelings that he had forgotten the other thing that made him different from every other person attending the school. Now the dark-haired boy in front of him was closing in on that, for some reason, and it made Aidan uncomfortable. Though it's not as if he didn't get a big clue that something was going on when he saw me use my wand for the first time.

"Why?"

"I don't know," Aidan replied slowly, feeling the heat rushing into his cheeks. "I didn't get an owl on my eleventh birthday."

"Really? What happened to it?"

"They never sent one."

"You mean they missed you?" Ciarán asked in mild surprise. "That's not supposed to happen." He frowned. "They usually capture the name of every wizard baby as soon as it's born."

Every normal wizard baby, Aidan thought unhappily, his own sense of detachment from anything normal churning within him. It was a lonely feeling.

Ciarán was staring at him quizzically, as if Aidan was a puzzle that was missing a few pieces, or one with a few remaining pieces that didn't quite fit into the holes. "You're a wizard, right?"

"I don't know," Aidan said, a trace of irritation creeping into his voice. It wasn't the truth, but what did Ciarán want, anyway; a full confession? No, I'm not a wizard, I'm something new that nobody's ever seen before and if that wasn't different enough I'm also probably g—that way and slightly attracted to you for reasons I don't understand and I don't want to be and, oh, by the way, I'm hiding a dark and painful past that seems to include willing submission to the perverse machinations of a man who would be my father! He was breathing heavily with the effort of controlling his feelings—he really didn't want to lash out at Ciarán—but the older boy didn't seem to notice.

"If you're a wizard, I wonder why you didn't get your owl," Ciarán mused. "Were your parents wizards?"

"I don't know!" Aidan half-shouted, his frustration getting the best of him. He didn't see the point in this line of questioning; everyone, the Slytherins included, already knew that Aidan wasn't a real wizard. Wasn't that explanation enough? Why did the older boy have to keep pressing him? "I don't know who my parents were! I don't know who I am! D'you want to keep rubbing that fact in my face? I don't know anything, okay?!"

Ciarán looked startled at the vehemence in Aidan's voice. "Sorry," he apologized quickly. "I didn't mean to pry; I was just curious."

With an effort, Aidan reined in his emotions. It's not his fault.

"Me, too," he muttered, throwing himself down onto the couch next to the older boy with a heavy sigh. "Believe me, if I had the answers, I'd tell you."

"Maybe we can find the answers," Ciarán suggested.

Aidan frowned at him. "What?" Realizing how rude he sounded, he hastily amended his statement. "I mean, how? Do you really think we can?"

Ciarán shrugged. "I don't know. But there's bound to be some information somewhere, and it'll give us something to do over the summer." He glanced at Aidan. "Well, it'll give me something to do, anyway, while you're studying."

"So I'm to be a research project, then," Aidan said sourly. "Going to publish your findings for An Exhaustive History of Magical Findings?"

"Unless you'd rather not know," Ciarán said pointedly.

"Sorry," Aidan said. "I didn't mean to sound ungrateful. I just wish…" He trailed off helplessly; there was no point wishing he wasn't different when he was. At least Ciarán was volunteering to help find out why, rather than shunning him for it. "Never mind. Thank you."

"You're welcome."

"What about you?" Aidan said after a moment, turning toward the older boy.

"What?"

"Well, we both know why I'm staying here for the summer, but why are you?"

Ciarán's face took on a strained look. "Fair's fair, I guess. I asked about you, you get to ask about me." He grimaced and ran one hand through his dark hair. "I guess you could say that my parents and I don't get along."

"You had an argument?"

"That's one way of putting it." Ciarán sighed. "See, I did get an owl on my eleventh birthday, but when my parents found out about my magical ability, they couldn't handle it. They believed—they still do, actually—that magic is some form of bedevilment, and when I proved to be incurable, they threw me out." He sighed again. "So for the past five years, I've lived here. I probably know the castle better than Filch himself."

"Oh," said Aidan softly. As he had not been raised to be particularly religious, he had not even thought of magic in that light, but he was aware of the stigma associated with magic by those who did consider themselves to be religious. It floored him to think that a person's own parents could send their eleven year-old son packing, completely ignoring or suppressing any kind of familial tie between them and their child—but then, he had heard of similar things happening to children who were that way, too. He felt sympathy for Ciarán; it was one thing to never want to go back home and quite another to never be able to go back, whether you wanted to or not.

"I'm sorry I asked," he said.

"It's okay," the older boy said, forcing a smile. "I hardly even think about it anymore." But Aidan thought he saw, for just a moment, a hint of pain in Ciarán's blue eyes that belied that statement. "So, what's McGonagall got you working on, then?"

"Levitation charms," Aidan replied. "And, to go along with that, I'm supposed to start flying lessons on Monday."

"You'll like flying," Ciarán said. "Unless you're afraid of heights."

"Not really."

"I was terrified," Ciarán admitted with a small smile. "Madam Hooch had to pry me from my broom afterward."

"Well, we'll see how I handle it," Aidan said, allowing himself a small smile as well. "I mean, flying a broomstick's not exactly standard fare for me."

"You could practice a little beforehand, if you wanted. I've got a broomstick. If—if you want," Ciarán finished awkwardly.

"Really?" Aidan asked, sitting up, forgetting all of his other feelings in his sudden excitement. "I didn't know you had a broom."

The older boy shrugged. "Well, I don't take it out that often. I'm still terrified of heights. It's upstairs," he said, nodding toward the boys' dormitory, where heavy thumping and scraping could be heard. "D'you want to see it?"

Aidan nodded eagerly. The two boys made their way upstairs. Ciarán was forced to duck as he entered the dormitory; Ronan had just chucked a pillow across the room, presumably at Aaron, who was grinning madly and holding a piece of parchment in one hand. The pillow never made it to its intended target, however; it struck Aidan full in the head.

"Watch it!" Ciarán said, bending down to retrieve the pillow.

"Sorry, Dwyer," said Ronan distractedly; all of his attention was fixed on Aaron. "Give it back!"

"'Your hair is as dark as a night with no moon,'" Aaron read from the page. "You're a poet, O'Connell!"

Ronan roared and charged at the other boy. "I said, give it back!"

Aaron dodged him easily, climbing from one bed to the next, waving the parchment before him like a matador egging on an enraged bull, and, indeed, Aidan thought the comparison was apt as he watched Ronan charge again, clambering over the beds and tripping over the twisted bed sheets. The other Ravenclaw boys looked on in amusement, grinning and laughing at Ronan's plight as he struggled to untangle himself; all except Ciarán, Aidan noticed, who stood watching the whole affair with one eyebrow raised.

"Guess who Ronan fancies," Aaron said gleefully, sidestepping Ronan neatly as he threw himself onto the bed on which Aaron was standing.

"Me," said someone from the direction of the staircase. All heads in the dormitory turned to see Shauna standing at the top of the stairs, wearing an expression very similar to Ciarán's.

"Er, yeah," Aaron said, his smile fading somewhat. "Good guess."

"Please, it's been perfectly obvious to me since last summer." She walked over to Aaron and held out her hand expectantly. Ronan was blushing fiercely, panting hard, and looked like he was trying to hide beneath the sheet that was still wrapped around him.

"I was just having some fun," Aaron said defensively, handing the note to the dark-haired girl.

"Don't—read it," Ronan gasped, struggling to sit up and avoiding Shauna's eyes.

"I won't," she said softly, folding the parchment in half and holding it out to Ronan. "But we should talk."

Ronan took the page from her with downcast eyes. "Um…when?"

"Whenever you can escape the madhouse," she said in a louder voice, staring hard at the Ravenclaw boys.

"How about now?" Aaron suggested. "Maybe not," he added quickly as Shauna glared daggers at him. She turned and swept from the room. Aidan thought he heard her mutter, "Boys!" underneath her breath before she disappeared down the stairs.

The other Ravenclaw boys resumed their previous packing activities, now that the fun was over. Ciarán shook his head and tossed the pillow back at Aaron. "You go too far sometimes, Blythe," he said to the sandy-haired boy.

"It was all in fun," Aaron protested, catching the pillow. "Ouch!" he said as Ronan punched him in the side.

"That was fun, too," Ronan said grimly, unwinding himself from the sheet and standing up.

"Nobody understands me," Aaron grumbled, throwing the pillow to one side and climbing down off the bed.

"Oh, we understand you," Ronan growled. "We just don't like you sometimes."

"Fine!" Aaron snapped, storming down the dormitory stairs.

"What's his problem?" Aidan asked.

"No one knows the answer to that," said Ronan, who was rapidly recovering from the earlier excitement and was staring anxiously at the dormitory stairs as if certain doom lay at the bottom. "Well, I suppose now's as good a time as any," he murmured nervously, rubbing the back of his neck absently. "I wonder what she wants to talk about."

"It'll be fine," Ciarán said reassuringly as the red-headed boy passed by.

"Yeah," Ronan said shakily. He faltered at the top step, and then, with a heavy sigh, made his way downstairs, looking like a man on his way to the executioner's block.

"Hang on," Ciarán said to Aidan, walking over to his bed and bending down. From underneath the bed, he retrieved a large black case, roughly rectangular in shape but larger at one end than the other. "Let's go somewhere less noisy," he said loud enough for the other boys to hear as he walked back over to where Aidan was waiting. "Like the Great Hall."

"We're sorry, did you two want to be alone?" sniggered one of the remaining Ravenclaw boys. Aidan did his best not to blush, but Ciarán just shook his head and ignored him, descending the stairs into the common room. Aidan followed him down and into the common room. Aaron was sitting on the couch before the fireplace, scowling darkly at the hearth and glaring occasionally at Shauna and Ronan, who occupied the two armchairs in the far corner. Ronan looked startled.

"The funny thing is, all of those guys are pretty brilliant when they put their minds to it," Ciarán said as they passed the stone occamy and descended the tower stairs. "Ronan's captain of the Ravenclaw Quidditch team and a great Beater, Aaron's a pretty fair duelist, Elijah's excellent with potions—so I'm always floored when they start acting like a bunch of chimpanzees."

Aidan didn't quite know how to respond to the older boy's observations, so he just nodded and kept quiet as they reached the bottom of the stairs.

"I guess love does funny things to people," Ciarán remarked.

"Love? You mean, Shauna and Ronan?"

The dark-haired boy nodded. "I don't know if it's love love, but it doesn't really have to be, apparently."

Aidan absorbed that, and a sudden thought occurred to him. "You don't think Aaron—?" he began slowly.

Ciarán nodded again. "He and Ronan have known each other for a long time."

"Oh." Aidan was silent the rest of the way to the Great Hall, lost in thought. For one thing, he had not been referring to Ronan and Aaron, but rather Aaron and Shauna. It seemed the Ciarán saw a different dynamic, though, and Aidan wondered if the older boy was somehow more attuned to things like that. Considering I don't believe for a minute that he's not g—that way, he thought and then was ashamed of himself. I'm stereotyping him. Why? Because I don't know anyone who's g—that way; I don't know how they're supposed to act.

But was that true? He knew Morgan, after all. But he wasn't sure Morgan qualified; after all, the man was married, although he had no children, save for Aidan—which is a good thing, he thought grimly. No one else needed to be victimized by the man. The only question was whether or not Morgan was representative of the whole group of people who were that wayjust say it! he thought angrily—or if he was something else. When he compared Ciarán to Morgan, he found so many differences that he was compelled to think the latter. Except that I'm acting as if the bastard was representative of g—gay people. Is that fair to Ciarán? Is it fair to me?

It wasn't fair to Ciarán; he knew that much. But he was still unsure about himself, and he entered the crowded, noisy Great Hall with no more certainty concerning himself than before. He and Ciarán found a seat at the far end of the Ravenclaw table, near the staff table. Ciarán laid the dark case on the table and opened it. Inside was the most stylish broomstick Aidan had ever seen. The handle was made of a rich, dark wood that had been polished to a bright sheen; the candles floating overhead were clearly visible in the finish. The tail was made of even darker wood, each individual twig comprising it seeming to glow like the polished handle. Gold lettering on the tip of the handle proclaimed the broomstick to be a "Nimbus 2000".

"Wow," Aidan breathed.

"It's okay," Ciarán allowed. "It's more or less an antique, now."

"Where'd you get it?" Aidan asked, not taking his eyes from the broom.

"It was given to me, actually, by the previous captain of the Ravenclaw Quidditch team when he left last year."

Aidan looked dubiously at the dark-haired boy. "He just gave it to you?"

Ciarán's cheeks took on a slightly-flushed appearance. "Pretty much. He didn't need it anymore; he'd gotten one of the new brooms. A Zephyr XL, I think."

Aidan thought he knew the real reason but he did not press the issue, turning back to admire the broom instead. "It looks brand-new."

"He took good care of it," Ciarán said. "And I've only ridden it a couple of times."

Aidan reached out a tentative hand, running it lightly over the handle. "I probably shouldn't ride it," he said, not a touch regretfully. "I don't want to ruin it."

"You won't," Ciarán said. "You'll probably be a better flyer than I am."

"I don't know about that," Aidan said.

"Only one way to find out."

They hurriedly ate breakfast before heading out into the cool morning air. The grass was still wet with dew; by the time he and Ciarán reached the Quidditch pitch, Aidan's shoes were soaked and his socks had developed that uncomfortable squishy feeling, but he didn't care. He was going to fly!

"I think we'll be okay here," Ciarán said, gazing around at the empty stands. "No one's going to see us."

Aidan looked around. In the distance, three golden hoops mounted atop poles rose high in the air, the morning sunlight glinting from metal. Another set stood to his right, only a few yards away. The stands looked as though they could hold several hundred people; Aidan imagined them filled with screaming fans and began to appreciate how fanatical the wizarding world was about the game of Quidditch. Aidan had never seen a Quidditch match—indeed, he had never even heard the word before he entered Hogwarts—but he had heard enough about it in the two weeks since he started to know that it was the sport to play in the wizarding world.

"There's no breeze to contend with, either," Ciarán said approvingly, tipping the carrying case over and opening it. "You won't get blown off course." The Nimbus 2000 fell out, bouncing up into the air and righting itself, hovering in midair at waist-height, ready to be used. Aidan stared at it uncertainly. Now that he saw the broom in full daylight, it seemed impossible that it should be capable of flight, and yet it was floating unsupported before his very eyes.

"Go on, then," the older boy prompted, stepping back.

Hesitantly, Aidan approached the broomstick. "How do I get on?" he asked.

"Just put one leg over it, hold onto the handle, and let the broom do the rest."

Carefully, Aidan did as the older boy instructed, throwing one leg over the broom, which sank ever so slightly under his weight before rising slightly, so that his feet were dangling an inch above the ground.

"Hold on tight," Ciarán said.

Aidan grasped the handle tightly. The broom began to move at once, gliding slowly over the grass; without knowing why he did it, Aidan leaned forward and the broom picked up speed. He nudged the tip of the handle forward and up and the broom responded as he somehow expected it would, climbing slowly into the air. Aidan let out a whoop of delight as he discovered he the sheer simplicity of controlling the broom; he circled higher and higher into the air, until all of the Quidditch pitch was laid out beneath him and Ciarán was reduced to a miniature face staring up at him. On a sudden impulse, Aidan nudged the broom forward again and it took off, shooting over the field toward the hoops at the other end; Aidan slingshot around them and back toward Ciarán, diving toward the older boy and coming to a dead stop less than a foot away.

Ciarán looked impressed. "I thought you might have a knack for it," he said.

"Are you kidding?" Aidan said, grinning broadly. "I don't have a clue how I'm doing it. It just…feels natural." He shrugged. "D'you mind if I take it for a test flight?"

Ciarán shook his head, smiling. "Go ahead," he said. "I'll wait here."

Aidan grinned again and took off, soaring high into the air. If this was the only thing the wizarding world had to offer him, if he never learned how to use his power, flying a broomstick would be more than enough. He suddenly felt as if there was nowhere he couldn't go, as if the entire world was open to him. The morning sun blazed against his skin, the cool morning air rushed over his skin, puffy white clouds blurred by overhead; the day was new and the endless possibilities stretched before him.

Lost in the sheer joy of the moment, Aidan sped over the grounds, streaking over the castle before veering toward the lake, which glinted gold and silver in the morning light, reflecting the sky and overhead. He flew low over the water, reaching down and trailing his fingers along the surface, feeling the cool water against his skin and laughing with delight. On the other side, the Hogwarts train billowed steam into the air as students gathered around it. Throwing all caution to the wind that streaked over him, Aidan flew over their heads, listening to their cheers and calls and shouting back ecstatically before circling around and heading back toward the castle, skirting so close to the edges of the Forbidden Forest that he nearly snagged his shoelaces in the uppermost branches of the trees. He veered left and spotted his next challenge: the lone tree that stood halfway between the forest and the castle, its branches waving lazily as if beckoning him closer.

Aidan shot toward it, circling it once, twice, going lower and lower, seeing how close he could get to it without actually touching it, challenging his newfound mastery of flight.

Something struck him from behind, hard, and Aidan cried out as he felt a sharp jolt, like a large club smashing painfully into his back. His stomach gave a wild lurch as he was thrown violently forward, his grip on the broom handle slipped and he fell down through the branches of the tree, which seemed to be writhing in agitation as he passed. He felt another sharp jolt as a branch whipped around and struck him full in the chest, throwing him backward with enough force to send him flying clear away from the tree, out into thin air. His stomach flipped as he felt the brief sensation of free flight, and then he was falling, faster and faster, the ground rushing up to meet him and nothing, not even a broomstick, could save him. He gasped, throwing his hands out in front of him in a vain attempt to stop the fall, but that was all he had time to do before he crashed painfully into the ground, his arms wrenching terribly.

Darkness descended swiftly upon him.