Author's Note: It feels like an eternity since I started this story. I apologize to anyone who was waiting breathlessly for this chapter (I hope it didn't hurt too much when you passed out). I don't know if you've ever had the experience, but when you try to ignore life, it just becomes more insistent until it completely takes over and then you have no choice but to deal with it for a while. No? Well, shoot. Anyway, here it is!

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.

NINE

And so he ran until every muscle in his body ached, until the sweat was pouring down his face and his breaths were coming in short gasps, until his heart was thundering in his head and his body screamed for a pause, and then, only then did he collapse to the ground, exhausted, weeping sweat and tears, panting heavily with the terror creeping up on him as his pursuer drew near: the giant wall of darkness, the night, the void that was not empty but was full of a thousand and one souls whose brilliance had been snuffed out in an instant. The wall of night, the eternity of shadow towered above him, casting its dark regard down on the small figure before it, and then, with a savage howl of triumph, it crashed down on him, deafening him with a roar like thunder.

And he awoke, panting, his stomach clenched tightly with fear, his every muscle on fire, his pulse racing. It was an eternity, it felt, before he could even move, before he could run his fingers over the familiar bedspread, feel the coarse fabric beneath his fingers, reassure himself of its reality and the fact that he was indeed in the waking world.

"You were having a nightmare again," said a low voice, the only voice he wanted to hear, and the one voice he had not heard enough of for almost a month. After Aidan's recovery from his broom accident, his relationship with Ciarán had been somewhat strained, reduced to mere greetings as they passed in the corridors, a brief nod, but nothing more. Aidan was left to concentrate on his studies, and he gradually began to realize just how big and empty a castle could really feel. Now, it seemed, Ciarán was content to let their relationship lie, while Aidan, given his circumstances, wanted more.

"Yeah," Aidan muttered thickly, his tongue as reluctant to move as the rest of his body, frozen still by the terror of his dream. "Again," he managed after a moment.

"How many nights in a row now?" the older boy asked.

"I've lost count."

"You should tell someone. McGonagall."

"No." Aidan shook his head. The last thing he needed or wanted was for McGonagall to think he wasn't ready to join the rest of the Third Years when term began again, to think she'd been pushing him too hard.

"What will you do?"

Aidan sighed and turned on his side, so that his back was to the older boy in his bed across the room. The conversation was not turning out at all like he wanted; instead of sounding concerned, Ciarán's tone was matter-of-fact and disinterested. "Hope they go away."

Ciarán grunted but made no further efforts to reply. Within a few moments, Aidan heard the sounds of slow breathing that indicated the older boy had fallen asleep and he sighed again, turning over in his bed so that he was facing Ciarán's, so that he could pick out the features of the older boy's face as they were illuminated in the soft moonlight filtering through the window, serene and untroubled by dreams of darkness. He felt a wave of emotion overtake him—longing, sorrow—and instinctively fought it back, squeezing his eyes shut and willing it to subside. It was hard; he wanted the easy peacefulness that was evident on Ciarán's face, the lack of concern, but it was more than that. There was the promise of contentment, visible in the way the silver light of the moon softened the older boy's features, the way it seemed to lovingly caress them, and Aidan lay awake for a long time simply staring at the older boy across the way, until, at last, he felt the weariness overtaking him again, and he finally drifted off to sleep.

It was not enough.

The resounding snap of a book being shut jolted Aidan awake. The light shining through the windows of the Transfiguration classroom was exceedingly bright for some reason, and it took Aidan a moment to realize that he had fallen asleep in the middle of his lesson. He looked up, bleary-eyed, to see McGonagall glaring at him, and immediately braced himself for the worst.

"Do explain why it is so difficult for you to stay awake in my lessons, won't you?"

"Sorry," Aidan mumbled, pulling himself into a sitting position. Why does it always feel like I'm apologizing to her? he wondered. Probably because I'm always doing something wrong, another voice answered.

"Are you ill?" McGonagall asked, frowning as she took Aidan's disheveled look with a brief glance.

"No," Aidan answered, shaking his head. "Just…bad dreams."

"Indeed?" the Headmistress said tersely, but her stare had softened somewhat. "What sort of bad dreams?"

How much do I want to tell her? Aidan wondered. Everything! But, at best, she would think he was overworked and not ready to join the Third Years at the beginning of term. At worst, she'll think I'm a nutter and have me locked away. In the wizarding world or not, repeating dreams of fire and darkness were likely to evoke the same sort of response: a one-way trip to the asylum. Aidan shifted uncomfortably in his seat as McGonagall's expectant stare bored into him. "It's nothing," he mumbled finally, avoiding her stare.

"Oh, surely you can do better than that," said McGonagall. "I expect your dreams to be nothing less than signs and portents of things to come, Mr. Hayes; anything else is simply not a valid excuse."

"It's not an excuse!" Aidan snapped, suddenly irritated. All of the late nights spent poring over moldy old tomes, hunting for some bit of obscure knowledge that McGonagall had assigned him to track down, combined with the fact that for the past month he'd been unable to sleep the entire night through without being plagued by dreams he couldn't understand and McGonagall's dismissal of the whole thing as an "excuse"—all pooled together to form a seething mass of resentment within him, and without thinking, he blurted out, "You try having dreams about the Third Darkness every night!"

This time I've gone too far, Aidan thought with a sinking feeling, as McGonagall stared at him, clearly taken aback. She'll expel me for sure. I'll have to live on the streets, because there's no way I'm going back to that house. "I'm sorry," he said hastily, hoping to amend the situation. "I'm just tired."

"I see," McGonagall said after a moment, quickly regaining her composure. "Well, in that case, I think perhaps it's best if you have the rest of the day free. I shall inform the other professors that I've excused you from lessons, and I want you to return to the tower and rest."

Aidan started to protest, more out of habit than any real conviction, but the Headmistress cut him off with a look.

"Rest," she repeated firmly. "No homework, no strenuous activity. Do you understand?"

Aidan nodded mutely and began gathering up his things, all the while wondering what had caused her abrupt change in attitude. Could there possibly be something to his dreams? He'd already been half-entertaining that idea and her reaction certainly seemed to confirm it; but then, why was she ushering him off to bed rather than explaining things?

Unless she really does think I've lost it and she plans to have me put away. He shook his head and followed her out of the classroom.

"Rest," she repeated one more time before turning and marching away.

Aidan watched her go, torn between the desire to follow her and the desire to do as he was told. Finally, he sighed and trudged in the opposite direction, toward Ravenclaw tower. Whatever she knew, he could not force her to explain it to him, any more than he could force Ciarán to talk to him or force the storm brewing outside, visible through the arched windows, to change course. On the other hand, he doubted he would be able to rest, despite the firmness of McGonagall's command; his dreams simply would not allow it.

Wearily, he climbed the stairs to Ravenclaw tower, pausing to give the password to the irritable stone occamy, and clambering through the opening behind it. A fire was already blazing in the fireplace as he entered the common room, no doubt in preparation for the gathering storm. Ciarán was lounging in a chair before it, leafing idly through another heavy book; he did not look up at Aidan or acknowledge him in any way. Sighing again, Aidan made his way up into the dormitory, throwing his books and schoolwork onto the nightstand before collapsing on the bed. Through the window across the way, the leaden clouds were visible, and there was something ominous in their look that mimicked the darkness from his dreams. Aidan shivered as a feeling of foreboding washed over him; quickly, he turned his back to the window as the first distant rumble of thunder resounded outside, followed by the gentle patter of raindrops against the glass.

It's just a summer shower, he told himself. It happens all the time. But the clouds were darker, more sinister than he had ever seen them, and he could not easily divest himself of the unease that was building in him like a thunderhead, though his rational mind argued that he was being foolish. He tossed and turned on the bed for a few moments before abandoning all hope of achieving any kind of relaxed state.

Maybe it would be better if I sat in front of the fireplace downstairs, he decided, sitting up. The warmth might help me relax. Of course, he thought as he climbed down the stone stairs from the dormitory, Ciarán will probably studiously ignore me, but there's nothing for it.

Ciarán's chair was empty, however, save for the book he had been paging through, and Aidan frowned as his anxiety increased. The wind raced past the windows in the common room, setting the glass to rattling in its frames, and setting Aidan's nerves on edge. It was not like the older boy to leave a book lying around; in fact, Aidan couldn't recall ever seeing Ciarán put one down. He picked up the volume from where it lay, seating himself in the chair and studying the cover curiously. The words, "An Exhaustive History of Magical Theory" had been embossed into the leather cover; their gilded forms glinted in the firelight. Aidan considered them for a moment before opening the book, letting the pages fall through his fingers and staring in consternation as page after page came up blank. There was not a line of text to be seen anywhere in the book.

There has to be some trick to it, Aidan thought, tilting the book toward the fire to see if more light would illuminate the hidden text. When that failed, he tried flipping the book upside-down, then paging through it backward, even thumping the barren pages with his forefinger and saying, "Show me something, anything!" His efforts were all in vain; the book might as well have been blank, written by some mad author as a joke. Utterly confounded, Aidan clasped it to his chest and wondered what was going on as the wind howled outside, while the rain lashed at the windows as the storm became fully realized and the sky grew darker and darker and darker…

It was dark in this place, but it was not the vast, all-encompassing darkness of prior experience; rather, it was an intimate space—smaller, more personal. Nonetheless, Aidan found that he was unable to see to the end of it, and though it felt as if he was moving through it, he could not gauge how far he had come or whether he had made any progress at all. Gradually, as his sight adjusted to the darkness, he began to perceive a form in the distance. As he drew closer to it, his eyes were suddenly dazzled by a bright light from overhead, as if a spotlight had suddenly switched on, and it took some few moments for his vision to clear. To his surprise, Ciarán was standing before him, dressed in a tuxedo that was as dark as his surroundings, except where it was illuminated by the bright light from somewhere overhead. He bowed low as Aidan approached, sweeping a top hat from his head before tossing it to one side and stepping close. The spot of light gradually widened until it included the two of them, while from all sides, thousands of candles flared to life, revealing a grand ballroom Aidan had once seen in a picture when he was younger, all gold and white marble with elaborate chandeliers hanging from the ceiling and exquisitely-wrought candelabras ensconced in the walls.

"Shall we dance?" Ciarán asked. Before Aidan could respond, the older boy had taken one hand in his own, placing the other on the younger boy's waist and the music began. It was music unlike anything Aidan had ever heard before: a thoughtful, slow rhythm, like a dirge; stately and graceful, but altogether inappropriate for dancing. Yet Ciarán danced, leading him around the marble floor in a slow kind of procession, never speaking, his eyes locked on Aidan's own.

I'm dreaming, Aidan thought, but this is nothing like my previous dreams.

"No," Ciarán agreed. "It isn't."

"Where'd you go?" Aidan asked, momentarily forgetting himself. "You weren't in the common room."

"Oh, I had things to take care of," Ciarán said lightly, spinning Aidan around. "In the end, it comes down to you and me."

"What?" Aidan asked as he spun and his surroundings flashed by, a whirl of light and color.

"You and me," Ciarán said, catching Aidan at the end of the spin and letting him fall against his outstretched arm, leaning in close. "You and me."

"What does that m—" Aidan began, but Ciarán pressed his lips against Aidan's own and he promptly forgot the question.

"You and me," Ciarán repeated, breaking off the kiss and taking the lead again. "The beginning and the end."

"Of what?"

"Everything," Ciarán said with a grin, as if that was the most obvious answer in the world. "Time to wake up!"

"Now? But I—"

A loud crash of thunder startled Aidan from his sleep. He rubbed his eyes and glanced at the windows overhead, wondering how long he had been asleep. Darkness had fallen outside, and the sound of rain striking the glass was still audible, though the wind had subsided somewhat. The fire burned low in the hearth, which gave a fair indication of how long he had been asleep. He stood and stretched, letting the empty book fall to the floor and shaking his head at the strange turn his dreams had taken.

I wonder if I'll ever have a normal night's sleep again, he thought, stifling a yawn and glancing at the stone stairs leading up to the boys' dormitory. For a fleeting moment, he was tempted to go up there to see if Ciarán was back, but he decided against it, afraid of finding out that the older boy was not. His sense of foreboding had not been dispelled by his slumber, only dampened somewhat, and the thought of having to spend a stormy night alone in the tower was an uncomfortable one. Instead, he determined he would see if he could find the kitchens and nick some food; having slept through dinner, his stomach was reminding him of the necessity of a good meal.

As he slipped through the opening, the occamy shook itself slightly and snapped, "Don't you ever keep normal hours?" He ignored it and crept down the tower stairs, pausing with every flash of lightning as an irrational fear gripped him. Finally he made it out into the deserted corridors of the school, nearly dark save for the intermittent torch set high into the wall at intervals, their flickering light casting dancing shadows on the portraits that lined the walls. Occasionally, one of the occupants of the portraits would stir as he slipped past and utter words of warning about being out so late, but Aidan paid no attention to them, focusing all of his concentration on the idea of finding the kitchen so he would not have to acknowledge the fear that was creeping up on him, preventing him from looking over his shoulder at the darkness and gloom behind him.

A sudden noise in the passage ahead of him startled him, causing him to flatten himself against one wall, much to the annoyance of its occupants. A few feet away, another corridor intersected this one, and Aidan could hear the sound of footsteps making their way along the stone floor, drawing closer. Aidan pressed himself against the wall and waited with baited breath as Headmistress McGonagall swept past, holding her lighted wand aloft and looking neither left nor right. Overcome with curiosity, Aidan decided to follow her, forgetting his hunger and the fact that the portraits could speak.

"Behind you, then!" called one of them and Aidan froze in the act of stepping away from the wall.

McGonagall paused and turned around, holding her wand even higher so that its light washed over Aidan. "I might have expected as much," she muttered upon seeing Aidan. "Well, come along, then!"

Aidan shot daggers at the portrait and grudgingly walked over to the Headmistress, who turned and wordlessly led them at a brisk pace down the corridor. Aidan gasped involuntarily as a large, ugly shape suddenly loomed out of the darkness, prompting a sideways glace from the Headmistress.

"All right?" she asked, one eyebrow raised.

Aidan nodded, not trusting himself to speak lest his voice come out in a squeak while silently chiding himself for being afraid of the great stone gargoyle before them.

"Quinquatria!" McGonagall said, and Aidan gaped as the gargoyle obediently leaped to one side while, with the noise of much grating of stone against stone, the wall behind it opened up, revealing a spiral stone staircase that literally wound its way up into the darkness, constantly moving with a dull grinding sound. The Headmistress stepped forward, and Aidan followed. The moment their feet touched the stone staircase, the wall ground shut behind them, closing with a resounding thud as the staircase whisked them upward. It was only a matter of minutes before they were deposited at the top of the stairs, before an oak door with a golden knocker.

"The office of the Headmistress," McGonagall explained, "though I use it very rarely." She turned the handle and together they stepped inside.

Even had she not said so, Aidan would have been able to tell that the Headmistress did not make regular use of the office; it was far too dusty and dark. On a table in one corner, what might once have been gleaming metal instruments of some kind sat in cold, dusty silence. Cobwebs stretched from the tops of the bookshelves seated in another corner to the ceiling, which receded into darkness overhead. A single flickering candle provided the room's only illumination, except where the occasional flash of lightning shone through the drapes that had been drawn tight over the windows in the far corner. Overhead, Aidan could see a great many wooden frames, undoubtedly containing portraits like those found in the halls of the school; these, too, were covered with a film of dust, except for one directly over the door behind him, whose occupant regarded them with twinkling blue eyes behind silver half-moon spectacles, the ghost of a smile visible in the midst of his flowing white beard.

"This is indeed an unexpected delight," said the man in the picture, glancing first at Aidan before turning his gaze on the Headmistress. "To what do I owe the pleasure of your company tonight, Minerva?"

Aidan glanced at the Headmistress and saw a curious sort of tension in her face. "I need your help," she said simply.

"As ever, I am happy to lend assistance where it is required," said the old man.

McGonagall nodded. "Mr. Hayes, meet Albus Dumbledore, quite possibly the finest headmaster Hogwarts has seen these many years."

The old man in the portrait chuckled. "You give me far too much credit, Minerva. All I ever did was sit around and attempt to look important."

"You did a great deal more than that, I should think," the Headmistress replied fervently. She checked herself and nodded at Aidan. "This is Aidan Hayes, a recent addition to the school."

"Hullo," Aidan said politely, somewhat unnerved to be talking to an animated portrait.

"I understand you've been sneaking about the halls at all hours of the night," the old man remarked with a twinkle in his eye. "In the future, do try to avoid being caught."

McGonagall grimaced. "Please don't encourage him, Albus. I'm sure he's quite capable of managing mischief on his own."

"Oh, I am sorry," said Dumbledore in mock seriousness. "I continue to forget that it is not the place of an educator to encourage students to do anything." He winked cheerfully at Aidan, who grinned despite himself.

"That's not what I meant," said McGonagall in exasperation.

Dumbledore smiled. "No. But we must all laugh at ourselves sometimes, Minerva, and encourage others to do the same, lest we take ourselves and our surroundings too seriously."

"My only thought is for the welfare of the school," the Headmistress said tightly.

"No one has worked more tirelessly than you toward that end," Dumbledore agreed. "You put many, if not all, other headmasters and headmistresses to shame, myself included."

"I could never—" the Headmistress began, and her voice caught, so that she was forced to break off her sentence. Aidan felt distinctly uncomfortable, as if he had stumbled into something he would not otherwise have been privy to. There was a moment of silence while McGonagall regained her composure before she continued.

"Would you please talk to Mr. Hayes?" she asked the portrait in measured tones, then, turning to Aidan, she said, "Tell him about your dreams. Tell him everything that you can remember. I have—business—to attend to, but I will return in an hour." She nodded to both of them and departed, closing the door behind her.

Dumbledore sighed.

"I've never seen her so upset," Aidan remarked.

"It is often difficult for a person to accept the loss of the ones they care for."

Aidan blinked as the implications of the old man's statement settled in. "But…you're still here," he pointed out.

The old man smiled. "Yes…and no. What you see is akin to an afterimage of the real Albus Dumbledore, a mere shadow of his personality. It is traditional for the departing headmaster or headmistress to leave behind such an imprint, in the form of a portrait, to counsel their successors." He chuckled. "Of course, there are limitations, as with all forms of magic, and I'm afraid my advice may be less helpful than she hopes. Still, I will do what I am able." He looked expectantly at Aidan.

"Er," said Aidan, feeling uncomfortable under the old man's gaze. Although it was benign, he felt as if there was nothing the old man did not know, no secret that was unrevealed to him, and the thought made him distinctly uncomfortable. Of course, he realized he should be used to the idea that people in the magical world understood more about him then he did—he'd gotten that already from both McGonagall and Ollivander—and it rankled him that they could so easily figure him out, and even more so that none of them would properly explain what they knew or how. But there was no superiority or smugness in the painted Dumbledore's eyes, only a patient kind of wisdom, as if the man already knew what he was going to say and was merely waiting for him to speak.

"I understand you've been having some disturbing visions," the former Headmaster prompted after a moment.

Grateful for the opening, Aidan nodded. "They're just dreams, really. It's just that they keep happening, and I don't know why."

"I have found, and I think you will agree, that a recurring dream usually means something."

"It feels as though it does," Aidan agreed. "It feels as if it means everything. It's hard to explain."

"Why don't you begin by telling me what happens in these dreams?"

"Well, in all of them, there's this—darkness," Aidan began, struggling to find words that would describe the horror and the fear that the mere appearance of that utter darkness in his dreams brought to him. "In some it's a person and in others it's more like an enormous wall of…blackness, like a void, except that it's not empty, or it didn't used to be," he corrected himself. "It used to be full of lights, or stars, only they've all burned out; they've all died, lost their light or their will to burn or something." He looked up at the old man in his portrait on the wall. "Am I making sense?"

The former headmaster nodded. "How do you feel when you see this darkness?" Dumbledore asked.

"Afraid," Aidan admitted. "Terrified. I'm always struggling with it, or running from it, trying to keep it from taking something from me."

"And does it succeed?" inquired Dumbledore, gazing intently at him.

"No. At least, it hasn't yet, but it's come close in some of them, and every time I'm afraid it will actually find a way."

"Do you know what the darkness is?"

"Well, the phoenix said it was the Third Darkness," Aidan replied.

"The phoenix?" Dumbledore asked sharply, leaning forward in his frame.

Aidan nodded. "I think that's what it is, from what I've learned about magical creatures. It's always in my dreams, too. It talks to me, sometimes, and it feels sad when it sees the darkness, as if—as if it's lost a best friend, or family, and they can never come back."

The portrait of Dumbledore stared thoughtfully into the distance.

"Please, do you know what's going on?" Aidan implored the silent old man, suddenly on the verge of tears with no clear understanding of how he got there. "All of this"—he gestured wildly around him—"it's all happened so fast, and I've barely had time to think about any of it. I just want to understand what's happening to me."

The old man turned to look at him with sympathy in his eyes. "As I said, I am only a shadow of what was once a reality," he said, spreading his hands apologetically. "What I know, I will tell you, but I cannot give you all the answers you seek. I simply don't have them."

Aidan nodded again and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. "I'll take anything I can get."

"First, you need to understand that there is a great that we do not know about magic. Why, for instance, does magic work on Earth, but not in space? Why does not everyone have access to it? What makes a person capable of using it? Why does it react to intent, to will? What, exactly, is it?" He looked expectantly at Aidan.

"I don't know," Aidan murmured.

Dumbledore smiled. "Precisely. No one does, not even our most learned minds, and believe me, we have been studying the issue for a long, long time. The second thing you should know is that the same thing can be said for prophecy."

Aidan blinked. "Prophecy? I thought that was all nonsense."

Dumbledore nodded. "Real prophecy is a rare gift, but it does occur. Again, we don't know why or how, only that it does, and when it does, we hope someone is around to hear it. Prophecy is not limited to those with magical ability but seems to be completely separate from it. There have been non-magical prophets, just as there have been magical ones, and the only thing that they have in common is that the things they saw came to pass."

"Then you think…I'm a prophet?" Aidan's mind reeled at the possibility.

The old man nodded once more. "I believe you have the ability, yes, which is why I referred to your dreams as visions."

"But I'm not seeing actual events," Aidan protested. "Just…darkness."

"Indeed. If there's a single unmanageable talent, it's prophecy. It seems to come and go as it pleases, when it pleases, often manifesting itself at odd times and sometimes lying dormant for years, if not decades. However, when it does manifest itself, whatever the prophet sees, from mere symbolism to actual events, unfailingly comes to pass. But"—he held up a finger—"there is a catch. There are some events that no prophet can foresee, and these have been dubbed Darknesses, out of the fact that they are hidden from even those with the Sight.

"Thus far, only one has come and gone, and the rest we must wait on. We know that they will occur, but we do not know when they will occur, or how events will play themselves out afterward—only what might happen. And it is this twist, the unpredictable nature of that which can be predicted, that causes prophecy to be looked at as more of a curse than a gift, especially by those with the ability."

"I don't want to be a prophet," Aidan muttered.

"Understandable," the former headmaster replied. "But we must all come to grips with what makes us who we are; if not sooner, then later."

"Yeah?" asked Aidan sourly, fighting to keep his feelings of frustration and exhaustion in check. It all felt like too much for a single lifetime: to come from a past that no one could understand, to be able to wield a devastating power that no one had ever seen before, to be able to foresee a future that no one could comprehend—it all served to make him that much more of an outsider. He had hoped, he had told himself, convinced himself that with a little work he could fit in, but every time he began to think he was making progress in that direction, the rules changed again. "I choose later. Much, much later. Never."

"That is certainly an option," said Dumbledore gently, "although perhaps not ideal."

"It'd be a lot easier than this," Aidan said fiercely, tears leaking out of the corners of his eyes despite his best efforts to hold them back.

"Would it?" Dumbledore asked quietly. "How much effort is it taking for you to hold back your feelings at this moment? Is that a level of effort you feel you can maintain for the remainder of your life?"

Aidan blinked. "I suppose I never thought of that," he admitted.

Dumbledore nodded. "Few do. They see only the struggle before them instead of the victory afterward, and they choose to avoid that struggle, but in so doing, they miss out on the resulting victory as well."

"So what should I do?" Aidan asked, wiping his eyes again. "I don't know what the Third Darkness is or how to stop it."

"Alas, I cannot help you in that respect," said the old man apologetically. "Even if I had that information, it would be based on someone else's vision rather than your own, and, as you and I well know, no two people see the same event in quite the same way; thus, any information I could give you would not necessarily be accurate."

Aidan nodded. "I guess I'll have to figure it out on my own."

"Ah, now there I can help you," said Dumbledore, brightening. "Visions about Darknesses are never limited to one person. This means there is at least one other person out there having similar visions, and, if you can find them, you need not proceed alone."

"But how do I find them? There are billions of people in the world!"

Dumbledore nodded. "But consider: if you are all having visions about the same event, you will eventually find each other simply because you will all be attempting to participate in that event. It is only a matter of time."

"That makes sense," Aidan said, feeling considerably better about the whole thing. It helped to know, at least in a general way, what was going on, even if the specifics were still hidden from him. And it was also a relief to know that, when the time came, he would not be doing it by himself.

"Have I been sufficiently helpful?" Dumbledore inquired.

"Yes," Aidan answered gratefully.

"Excellent. In that case, I believe it is Headmistress McGonagall's turn. Would you be so kind as to let her in?"