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.
TEN
The rain continued throughout the next day, absent the thunder and lightning of the night before, but still accompanied by the wind, which gusted mightily, throwing sheets of rain at the windows and roaring over the open flues, causing the flames in the many fireplaces to dance wildly in their hearths. It seemed as though every fireplace in the castle was alive with flames, yet the fires did little to dispel the dampness and cold in areas not immediately in their purview, and thus traversing the empty stone corridors was something of a miserable experience. As it was Saturday, Aidan had little to do to occupy himself but wander the chilly halls or settle himself before the fireplace in the Ravenclaw common room. Ciarán was nowhere to be found, though Aidan searched for him; he could only assume the older boy had found some out-of-the-way spot to read his mysterious book and avoid him.
Aidan pondered this thought as he ambled down the corridor leading toward the library, wondering briefly why it had to be all or nothing with the older boy, why there was no middle ground. But his thoughts were constantly being interrupted by other, more immediate concerns. The previous night, for the first night in nearly a month, Aidan had slept; there had been no dark dreams, no sense of impending doom, no breathless terror—only sleep. Although Aidan was more than glad for the first night of uninterrupted slumber in what felt like ages, he could not help feeling uneasy, as if the absence of signs and portents in his dream was, in itself, a sign of something. He was not altogether reconciled with Dumbledore's explanation of events—he rather thought a genuine prophet should be able to control their ability, not the other way around—but he could not wholly discount it, either. It felt right somehow, inside, as if Dumbledore had one piece of the puzzle that was his life and knew exactly where it would fit. He was quite convinced that there was very little the old man had not known when he was—when he was more than an old portrait hanging from the wall of a dark, forgotten office.
Aidan felt sorry for Headmistress McGonagall; though she tried not to show it, the pain of talking to the shadow of a person she once knew and quite obviously cared for was clearly evident. He wondered briefly what she and the old man had discussed after he left, but soon found himself absorbed with his own problems once again as he stood before the doors to the school library, which were locked until the start of term.
Aidan had never been inside the library; McGonagall had been providing him with the books he needed to pursue his studies, but this had nothing to do with his studies and he doubted whether McGonagall would allow him books of arcane prophecy, even if they related to him; she had been reluctant enough to let him tag along on her visit to Dumbledore. Something Dumbledore had mentioned the previous night stuck with Aidan: the fact that one previous Darkness had already come and gone, which coincided with something the phoenix had mentioned in his dreams. He reasoned that there would be some account of that event, possibly even of the prophecy that foretold it, which might give him some idea of what the second and third entailed and what might be done to prevent them.
"I hope this works," Aidan said to no one in particular, nervously withdrawing his silver-white wand from the back pocket of his jeans and pointing it at the lock. There was a spell for locked doors that he had stumbled across in his Charms research, and, although he knew he was essentially breaking into the library, he had no choice. He had to know.
"Alohamora!" he whispered. He felt the usual burning sensation in his right arm as a fiery orange spark leapt from the end of the wand into the keyhole. However, rather than the clicking sound Aidan expected to hear, as of one spring-loaded lock mechanism being disengaged, the keyhole emitted a puff of steam accompanied by a strange burbling noise; the next moment, the glowing orange innards of the lock oozed from the keyhole to trickle down the face of the door, singeing the wood where it made contact and sending a trail of smoke and the smell of scorched lumber into the air. Aidan very nearly dropped his wand and bolted—he was going to be in enough trouble for breaking into the library without also destroying school property—but the door swung open slightly, and, steeling his resolve, Aidan pushed it open all the way and stepped into the dark interior.
The library of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry was vast, far larger than Aidan expected. It could easily have contained the libraries of all of his previous schools, with rows upon rows of wooden shelves that stretched from floor to ceiling and as far back into the dimness as he could see. Before him numerous tables, covered with a thin film of dust accumulated over the summer, were arranged in rows; to his left was a long counter, behind which he could make out a closed door that no doubt opened into the office of the school librarian. The smell of old books permeated the air in the room, the odor of worn leather and aged pages reaching Aidan's nose as he cautiously crept toward the first row of shelves, squinting to make out titles embossed on faded leather covers before remembering the only spell his wand did correctly.
"Lumos!" he whispered into the darkness and the tip of his wand lit up, casting an eerie yellow-orange glow over his immediate surroundings. It occurred to Aidan then, as he gazed for the first time on the sheer quantity of books contained in the space before him—books with titles such as Necromancy: Dead On or Dead End?, Everyday Enchantments—From Dusting to De-Gnoming and Everything In Between, and Reflections of a Modern Vampire—that he had no idea how to go about his search. In any non-magical library, he would have expected to find a computer, or at the very least a card catalog, but he doubted whether either of those items would be present in a wizarding library, which left him at a loss. The books did not even seem to be in order; they were not arranged in any fashion that Aidan could fathom, and as he stood, staring in consternation at books whose subjects ranged from the mundane to the outrageous, he could not help but wonder how anyone could find anything in a library such as this. It felt as though he could spend days wandering the aisles, memorizing titles, and still never know the full contents of the library. Suddenly, his self-appointed task seemed daunting.
With a resigned sigh, Aidan pulled the largest book he could find from the shelf and hefted it over to the nearest table. Maybe I'll get lucky, he thought, although he did not have high hopes. The title of the chosen book had faded so as to be completely unreadable; carefully, for the tome looked, felt, and smelled ancient, Aidan opened it to the title page, holding his wand close to the discolored paper so that he could read the washed-out words, which he vaguely recognized as Latin: "Tempus Fugit." A quick review of the rest of the book confirmed that it was, indeed, written entirely in Latin, and he quickly discarded it, returning to the shelves in search of another interesting-looking volume.
As the pile of large and ancient books on the table grew, Aidan began to despair of ever finding an answer to his question. He did not know how long he had been searching without success, only that it felt like an eternity; the darkness of the library remained uniform, punctuated only by the light of his wand. As he approached the end of the first row, he had about decided to give up his search when he discovered a length of rope stretching between the shelf and the wall at waist height. A sign hanging from the rope read:
RESTRICTED
No Admittance Except By
Special Permission
Curious, Aidan peered into the gloom, raising his wand high above his head in an attempt to see what sorts of books were kept in a section of the library that was apparently off-limits while term was in session. At the same time, he felt a thrill of certainty; the answer he was looking for regarding the First Darkness had to be somewhere behind the rope. His determination renewed, Aidan ducked underneath the rope.
The change was startling. Whereas the books outside of the restricted area exuded a kind of old, musty sense of disuse, here the atmosphere was a great deal more sinister, darker somehow. The light of his wand seemed diminished, its efforts at driving back the darkness more feeble, so that the shadows loomed above him and around him, pressing in on his little sphere of light as if the darkness was alive and malevolent in its intent. He thought he heard whispers in the shadows, and once or twice his eye caught movement, or thought it did, as he fearfully passed his wand's silvery light over the shelves.
It's my imagination, Aidan told himself. Books are books; they're not alive. Still, he could not quite shake the feeling that he was being watched, and it took him a moment to muster up the courage to reach out and brush one of the leather-bound volumes, which felt rough and cold to the touch. The words written on the spine had been written in a spidery script using an alphabet that Aidan had never seen. With some trepidation, he set the book on the dusty floor and crouched over it, turning to the title page while keeping his wand held high, driving the darkness as far away as possible. The script on the title page was no more legible than that on the book's spine, but he did not long get a chance to look at them as the pages ruffled of their own accord, causing Aidan to jump as they flipped open to a page on which was displayed a picture that caused him to scream.
It was only by clapping his free hand over his mouth at the last second that he was able to muffle the sound as he stared in horror at a face that was not—could not have ever been—human, and yet it was, it was, he knew it was, and it was made all the more hideous by that realization. Scarlet red eyes stared back at him, bored into his soul; scarlet red eyes on a chalk-white face, the face of a dead man, more serpentine than human, with slits for nostrils and nothing but ill intent in its expression. Quickly, Aidan slammed the book shut and stared at the cover in terror, afraid to touch it lest it show him something even worse.
Trembling, breathing heavily, it took Aidan a moment to realize that he could now read the title of the book; where before he had seen nothing but an incomprehensible, sinister-looking scrawl, he now clearly saw the words:
Sigils
The Sight and True Magic
By Alecto Phyton
It's a book about prophecy, Aidan realized as his initial fright passed. But what are the Dark Arts? With great care, as his curiosity overcame his initial fright, he opened the book again, keeping his free hand firmly pressed against the pages to prevent them from moving on their own. Every page was now legible and filled with text; Aidan paged to the table of contents and quickly skimmed the entries, looking for something promising. His eye fell on one, "Blinding the Sight," and, with mounting excitement, Aidan flipped to the appropriate page, which read:
IT MAY SURPRISE proponents of Prophecy to realize that, for all of a Prophet's power to foresee events that may not occur for centuries, even millennia, a Prophet may very easily be fooled, even prevented from seeing anything meaningful at all. This is due to the nature of the Sight, which is dependent upon the malleable perceptions of the Seer, and it is by this means that external influences may gain some measure of control over Prophecy, so as to bend it to their own purposes.
External influcences? Aidan did not like the sound of that; it implied that someone else might be able to control what he saw or could not see, at least to some extent. The idea did not sit well with him; he was used to the idea of prophets being all-seeing. Of course, his talk with Dumbledore should have already disabused him of that notion. Shaking his head, he turned his attention once again to the page.
One skilled in True Magic will already be aware of the many incantations available for modifying the perceptions and memories of a target; these are used by those professing a taste for so-called 'White Magic' as a means for controlling those lesser individuals with no magical power at all. In much the same way, a True Wizard can modify the perceptions of those with the Sight to suit their purposes; in fact, if done correctly, this modification should, in theory, persist in those descendants of the target who also have the Sight, thus ensuring that the event the True Wizard wishes to have masked remains so. The difficulties that arise are, of course, the fact that an event may be seen by several different Prophets and the fact that the True Wizard must, in some way, gain knowledge of the event in question. Therefore, it is ideal to keep one or more Sight-endowed individuals in servitude to the True Wizard so that the necessary knowledge can be obtained and the requisite perception-modifying charms applied.
Aidan stared, aghast, at the page, which was suggesting nothing less than keeping someone like him, someone with prophetic ability, as a slave in order to gain knowledge of the future and change it to suit the whims of the 'True Wizard'.
What is a book like this doing in a school? he thought disgustedly, throwing the book down. It slid along the stone floor and came to rest a few feet away, so that half of it was outside the circle of light cast by his wand. Once more, the pages ruffled themselves, but instead of halting on the page with the hideous visage, they opened onto a moving picture of a dark, wet cobblestone street. Lightning flashed on the page, and, to Aidan's surprise, a crash of thunder sounded, not from the book, but from outside the castle.
Frowning, Aidan warily retrieved the book. On the page before him, rain was falling steadily; he could almost hear it pattering against the stones. There were buildings in the scene, built in the old style, so that at first Aidan thought he was watching a depiction of something that had occurred in the past. However, when he saw a young man step out from one of the buildings wearing jeans and tennis shoes, he realized that the scene unfolding before his eyes was more recent; and when another flash of lighting lit up the page, accompanied once more by the sound of thunder from outside the castle, he realized that it was happening now.
How is that possible? Aidan wondered, leaning in closer to the page. The book looked as ancient as any of the others he had pulled from the shelves, and so unless it was, itself, prophetic—but it was only a book! Aidan leaned closer, and suddenly felt the floor beneath him lurch. With a startled cry, he threw out his hands, expecting to hit the stone floor face first, but instead he found himself falling, impossibly, into the book, and he landed on his feet some distance behind the young man he had seen earlier. Astonished, he looked up, expecting to see the hole through which he had fallen…
…and discovered he could not. His viewpoint did not change, though he could feel the sensation of his body beneath him, the chill night air numbing his fingers, he had no control over them. Instead, he remained focused on the young man, who looked as though he was trying to decide whether or no to venture away from the protecting of the overhanging eave, into the wet, cold night. It was as if he was sharing his body with someone else—no, as if someone else was sharing their body with him. He was a passenger, an onlooker, and the feeling of not being in control was disconcerting.
He had little time to worry about this, though, as the young man finally seemed to arrive at a decision and hurried out into the rainy night, away from Aidan. Carefully, he followed after the young man, staying far enough behind so as to remain unnoticed as his target dashed from one building to the next in an attempt to remain as dry as possible. Slowly, Aidan realized he was gaining on his quarry and the brought with it the thrill of anticipation. The fun was in stealing up to the young man unnoticed, in tapping him on the shoulder and seeing the look of fear and alarm on his face as he turned around to see Aidan standing before him.
"Do I know you?" asked the young man uncertainly, squinting at Aidan as droplets of rain ran down his face.
Aidan made no reply, grasping his wand tightly in his hand—No! came a thought from somewhere—and leveled it at the boy.
"What're you doing?" his victim asked, panic in his voice as he fumbled for his own wand.
"Good-bye, Justin," said a voice that was not Aidan's own, though it seemed to come from his mouth. In the same instant that the light of recognition and terror dawned in the young man's eyes, the voice shouted, "Rendan fortes!"
A blinding white light erupted from the tip of the wand, accompanied by a deafening roaring sound like a rushing wind, and the boy crumpled to the ground. Somewhere, far away, someone cried out in horror as lighting flashed overhead, followed by a loud thunderclap—
--and Aidan found himself once more in the library, clutching the book tightly, panting heavily, and staring into the eyes of Argus Filch.
"On your feet!" the Hogwarts caretaker snapped.
Shakily, Aidan got to his feet. He felt sick to his stomach, his heart was pounding heavily in his head, and he wobbled unsteadily for a moment or two on his feet while Filch glared at him. I killed him, I killed him, I killed him, was all he could think, I don't know how but I was there, I killed him!
"Thought you'd nip into the library and have a look at the restricted section, did you? Thought no one would find you?"
Aidan made no reply; his mind was still reeling from the scene he had just been a party to. I killed him…
Filch jerked his head toward the front of the library. "A right little criminal you are, breaking and entering, destroying school property, making a racket at all hours of the night." He grabbed Aidan roughly by the arm. "If it were up to me, you'd hang from your toenails in the dungeons before they sent you home," he hissed. "As it is, you'll never set foot in the castle again."
That last statement finally brought Aidan to his senses. "I have to see the Headmistress," he told the caretaker, pulling his arm out of the old man's grasp. Or Dumbledore. I have to know what's going on, if I killed him. I couldn't have, I wasn't really there…was I? There might still be time, if I can just find him, find out where he is, get to him. Maybe…I have to try. He attempted to step forward, but found his arm once more in the caretaker's grasp.
"You'll see her when I'm done with you!" Filch snarled.
"Someone's been attacked!" Aidan exploded angrily, trying to wrest his arm from the old man's grip, which, despite his age, was still powerful enough to be painful.
"Read that in a book, did you?" Filch sneered.
"No, I saw it!" Aidan said. "I was—it was like I was there!"
"A likely story."
"Let me go! I have to see the Headmistress!" Aidan shouted, struggling with the old man. Filch cried out in astonishment as Aidan recognized the sensation of fire surging in his arm, and the next instant the caretaker was hopping about in pain and blowing on his singed hand; seizing his opportunity, Aidan bolted for the library doors and flew out into the dim corridor. It was only then that Aidan realized how much time had been spent in the library: the torches in their brackets had all been lit, and darkness was all that was visible through the windows. He did not stop to think, but pounded down the stone corridor toward the stairs, clambering up as fast as he dared, stumbling once or twice and nearly causing himself a nasty fall. Lightning flashed in the windows as he passed them by, followed quickly by the ominous rumble of thunder overhead, all of which served to heighten Aidan's anxiety. He did not even know what his destination was until he arrived at the foot of Ravenclaw tower, gasping for breath.
I don't even know where he is, Aidan thought, breathing heavily and staring at the winding staircase that led up to the Ravenclaw common room while the vision of the young man crumpling to the rain-slicked street played itself over and over in his mind. How will I find him? I'll never get there in time! Part of him, the irrational part, wanted to fight the realization, but his rational mind would not allow it; he knew it was true. There was no way for him to know where the events of his vision had taken place, and the boy was dead, dead, and he had seen it, he had felt it, he had done it…!
No. He shook his head, swallowing hard, willing it to be true. It wasn't me, it was someone else.
Even so, said a nasty voice in his mind, you were there. You should have stopped it.
I couldn't! Aidan thought fiercely at it. I wasn't in control! But he could not shake the feeling that perhaps if he had tried harder, he might have been able to exert some control, change events. Why else would he have seen it? What would be the point of showing it to him if there was nothing he could do about it?
There has to be a reason. He wracked his brain, trying to recall the sensation of the vision, how it felt to be there, powerless to change or stop the events as they played out, to be unable even to look away. Was there something there, some clue, some nuance that he ought to have caught, that might have helped him change the outcome, that might have helped him to save the boy? Nothing came to mind, despite his efforts, and he was forced to concede, with a kind of heavy sorrow, that the outcome was inevitable. Even so, his frustration remained. Wearily, he sank down onto the stone steps as he realized how much trouble he was in, having visions he didn't understand, breaking into the school library, destroying school property, entering the restricted section without permission, and, worst of all, injuring a staff member.
I'll be expelled for sure, he thought miserably. He watched morosely as a brief flash of lightning illuminated the stone wall opposite the staircase and imagined himself in the pouring rain on a night such as this, huddled somewhere damp and uncomfortable, homeless. Worse still would be the realization that he would have had the opportunity to finally fit in somewhere, only to lose it. He did not know how McGonagall would react to his misadventures—she might only give him detention—but, no matter what, the worst thing she could do would be to send him back to the Sears house.
The sound of footsteps on the stairs brought him out of his reverie. At first, he was afraid it was Filch or McGonagall coming for him, until he realized the footsteps had stopped behind him. Twisting around, he looked up to see a familiar face, albeit a very damp one, regarding him cautiously.
"All right?" Ciarán asked.
Aidan nodded, turning away. The older boy shuffled slightly, as if considering something, then finally sat down next to him, water dripping from his face.
"Where've you been?" Aidan asked, partly to have something to say and partly because he found it odd that Ciarán should be coming in from outside via the Ravenclaw common room.
"Hogsmeade," the older boy said offhandedly, running one hand through his damp hair.
"Where?"
"Hogsmeade," Ciarán repeated. "It's the only all-wizarding village in Britain."
"Really?" Aidan asked, momentarily forgetting his worry. "I'd like to see that."
Ciarán nodded. "It looks like something out of the history books: eighteenth-century architecture, with inns and little shops. I'd almost expect to see carriages in the streets. Third Years and above are allowed to go, with permission from their parents."
"Even at night?"
"Er, not exactly," Ciarán murmured, shifting uncomfortably. "I was supposed to be back by sundown."
"Well, at least I wasn't the only one breaking the rules tonight," Aidan remarked, inexplicably feeling somewhat heartened.
"Why?" Ciarán asked with a disbelieving grin, as if he couldn't envision Aidan as a rule-breaker. "What've you been up to?"
"I…broke into the library."
The older boy snorted. "The library?"
"I had to find something out," Aidan retorted defensively.
"You could have asked McGonagall," the older boy pointed out.
"Why? Is that where you get your empty books?"
Ciarán frowned. "Empty books?"
"You left it behind last night," Aidan said, nodding in the direction of the common room. "There's nothing written in it."
"You have to ask it a question first," Ciarán told him.
"Oh," said Aidan, suddenly feeling foolish. "I—I didn't think of that."
"Right, and you should have because Muggle books all work that way, right?"
"Well…" Aidan grudgingly allowed. They lapsed into silence for a moment, Aidan marveling at how easy their banter had been, as if the month of avoiding each other had not happened; as if they were best friends. Quite suddenly Aidan realized how important it was for him to express this to the older boy, to make Ciarán understand that even if he didn't want anything else, he wanted to be friends with him.
"That was nice," Ciarán said quietly, as if reading Aidan's thoughts.
Aidan nodded silently.
Ciarán ran one hand nervously through his dark hair. "I—well I know I've been a git—but…but if you still want to be friends—"
"Yes," Aidan replied so quickly it startled both of them.
"Okay," the older boy said quietly, relief evident in his voice.
"Okay," Aidan echoed. They slipped into silence again, neither one quite willing to look at the other. Finally, Aidan cleared his throat. "So, tell me more about Hogsmeade," he said, hoping to break up the awkward moment.
Ciarán shrugged. "It's all right, if you like the 'quaint country village' stereotype: wood-framed houses and cobblestone streets, that sort of thing."
Aidan looked up sharply at the older boy, memories of his previous vision resurfacing. "Hogsmeade has cobblestone streets?"
Ciarán nodded. "It didn't used to; the wizards living there fight change with tooth and nail. But they finally decided, I think, that it was easier to pave the streets than clean up all of the mud, especially in weather like tonight's."
In Hogsmeade is the body of a boy lying in the rain-soaked street. He might be dead, he might not be, but I have to find him.
"How do you get there?" Aidan demanded, standing up.
The older boy looked up at him curiously. "Why?"
"I don't have time to explain," Aidan said, glancing upstairs. "Did you come in through the fireplace?"
"Yes," Ciarán replied. "Wait!" he called, clambering to his feet as Aidan charged past him up the stairs. "Where are you going? Aidan!"
"Someone was attacked there," Aidan called back, "tonight!"
"What? How do you know?" Ciarán asked, catching up to him.
"I saw it," Aidan replied shortly. "Tisiphone," he said to the stone gargoyle at the top of the stairs.
"I remember when students actually slept at night," the occamy muttered, moving to one side.
"I don't understand. How did you see it?" Ciarán inquired as they entered the common room.
"It's complicated," Aidan said, striding over to the fireplace, which was ablaze and taking the jar of Floo powder from its place on the mantle. Although no more portal guardians had failed since the occamy, the powder had not yet been removed from the common rooms; Aidan paused momentarily, briefly considering the consequences of using the Floo powder to leave the grounds, an act which had been expressly forbidden by Professor Aethera at the end of term.
"You're not actually thinking of going now?" Ciarán asked disbelievingly, looking from the jar of powder to Aidan's face.
"I have to," Aidan replied, settling on his choice.
"Well, then I'm coming with you," the older boy said.
"No," said Aidan, removing the lid from the jar. "I don't want you to get into trouble."
"I'm already in trouble," Ciarán retorted. "I may as well be in trouble for something big as something little." He sighed and pointed at the dancing flames behind Aidan. "Toss it in and say 'Hogsmeade.'"
Aidan nodded, secretly grateful to the older boy, and turned toward the fireplace. Taking a handful of the gritty powder, he threw it into the flames, which flared and turned green, bathing the common room in an eerie emerald glow.
"I hope you know what you're doing," Ciarán muttered as he and Aidan stepped into the flames.
"No," Aidan admitted, "I don't." Before Ciarán could reply, he called out, "Hogsmeade!" and with a roaring sound, the flames engulfed them.
