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, provided their transit papers are in order.

ELEVEN

The entire world was ablaze with fire and light as the wind howled around them, whipping the emerald flames into a frenzy, so that they licked hungrily at the edges of Aidan's clothing, but the magic inherent in the Floo powder restrained them, prevented the fire from burning through, though it did little for the smell of smoke and the gritty feel of ash against his skin. Moments later, Aidan felt himself pitch forward, and he and Ciarán landed sprawling on a stone hearth which was blissfully cool to the touch. The fire that had carried them flared briefly behind them, casting pale green light over their surroundings before sinking quickly into nothingness, leaving behind only a few glowing embers. Aidan blinked away the afterimage of the room as he stood up shakily, unconsciously brushing off the soot which clung to his skin and clothing.

"Where are we?" he croaked hoarsely, turning to Ciarán, who was peering intently at the ceiling overhead.

"Ssh!" he said, placing a finger to lips while cocking his head to one side, as if listening for something. After a moment, apparently satisfied, he turned to Aidan and replied, "We're in a pub called the Three Broomsticks."

"We made it, then?" Aidan inquired, squinting into the darkness. He could just make out the faint forms of circular wooden tables in the subdued lighting, which was provided by a solitary flickering candle mounted on the far wall above a wooden door.

Ciarán nodded. "This is Hogsmeade, or at least part of it. Where do we go from here?" he asked, gazing expectantly at Aidan.

"Outside," the younger boy answered, recalling the image of a body lying in a rain-soaked street.

"Right," Ciarán said, stepping forward. "Quietly," he admonished as the two boys carefully threaded their way through the tables toward the entrance. With great care, the older boy slid back the lock and opened the door, wincing slightly as it squeaked on its hinges. "She needs to oil those," he muttered, casting a worried glance at the ceiling overhead.

On the other side of the door, the rain fell steadily, pattering against the paving stones and dripping from the eaves. The damp, chill night air washed over Aidan as he stepped outside, followed by Ciarán, who quietly closed the door behind them. The two boys stood for a moment in the darkness, which was broken only by the dim glow of several lanterns hanging from iron poles which were placed at intervals along the street. Pools of water had formed along the sides of the road, reflecting the flickering lights from their black depths, and the sight filled Aidan with a sense of dread, for it reminded him of his darker dreams. He forced himself to look away from the gleaming pools at Ciarán, who was staring out at the falling rain with a thoughtful expression. Feeling Aidan's gaze, the older boy turned to face him, doubt clouding his expression.

"You're sure about this?"

Aidan nodded wordlessly, hugging himself tightly to keep warm as the wind picked up, scattering raindrops at both of them in spite of their relative protection beneath the overhanging roof. I should have brought a coat, Aidan thought, trying not to shiver, but there had been no time; the sense of urgency from his vision had seized him and compelled him to get here as quickly as possible. And although it had abated somewhat in the time since then, a faint echo remained, driving him to venture out into the wind and water with nothing more than the flimsy fabric of his shirt as protection.

"Here," Ciarán murmured as if reading his thoughts, shrugging out of his coat and holding it out to the younger boy. "Put this on."

Aidan shook his head. "What about you?"

"I've got a sweater. Besides, it's no good trying to save a life if you freeze to death first."

"Thank you," Aidan said, reluctantly taking the older boy's coat. It was relatively damp from whatever Ciarán had been doing in Hogsmeade before he returned to the castle, but it was warm, and what was more, it carried the faintest scent of the older boy, which, to Aidan's surprise, was actually rather pleasant. He shook his head to derail that particular train of thought before it careened out of control and stared down at the row of shops that lined the street, stretching into darkness. "Right, let's go." Together the two boys stepped out into the rain.

It quickly became evident to Aidan how immense his task was, even in a village as small as Hogsmeade appeared to be. Without knowing the exact location of the young man from his vision, he and Ciarán were forced to investigate every cross-street and alley, sometimes taking refuge for a moment underneath the overhanging eaves of one shop or another, stamping their feet and rubbing their hands together while their breath steamed before them and the wind blew cold water into their faces. It felt as though an eternity had passed before they finally reached the end of what was the main thoroughfare through Hogsmeade, arriving at last at the final intersection.

Could I have been mistaken? Aidan wondered, staring out at the intersection with chattering teeth while behind him Ciarán shivered audibly. Both of them were completely soaked and the water against their skin leached away a little more warmth every time the wind picked up. Aidan didn't understand how all of their efforts had failed to turn up the victim, unless—and this was a possibility he desperately wanted to discount—the vision had not been real. In his beleaguered state, it took him a moment to recognize the form lying prone in a pool of water across the way; the figure of a young man lying on his back in the rain. With a startled cry, Aidan dashed out into the street, momentarily unaware of the cold or the falling rain or the feel of the water soaking through his pants as he fell to his knees next to the young man, desperately searching for signs of life. He placed one finger against the base of the victim's neck and thought he felt a pulse, but his own heart was pounding so loud and so insistently that he could not tell.

"He's still warm," Aidan said to Ciarán as the older boy splashed over to him. "Does that mean anything?"

"I don't know," Ciarán replied, kneeling down next to Aidan, a look of concern on his face.

"He has to be alive," Aidan said firmly. "We need to get him out of the rain."

"Are you sure it's safe to move him?" Ciarán asked dubiously.

"No," Aidan answered swiftly, "but we know he won't survive in the rain. Help me pick him up." Together, the two boys managed to carry the young man over to the relative dryness of the nearest overhanging eave, which belonged to a shop with a squeaky sign that proclaimed, "Brooms Rebristled". Carefully, they propped their charge against the side of the building, and Aidan removed the coat Ciarán had lent him, draping it over the young man before standing up. "One of us needs to go for help."

"I'll go," Ciarán said.

Aidan nodded wordlessly, suddenly overcome with gratitude toward the older boy. "Thank you," he finally managed to say.

"I'll be back soon," Ciarán promised. "Try to stay warm." With a quick smile of reassurance, he ducked back out into the rain. Aidan watched him disappear into the darkness before sighing and turning back to the young man, the complete stranger whose life he was attempting to save. He was suddenly uncomfortably aware of his soggy shoes, of the chill which was once again creeping up on him, and it occurred to him how ludicrous he felt playing the hero; it was not a role in which he had ever expected to find himself, and it was disconcerting to think how ill-equipped he was to fulfill it. A real hero would've thought to bring his wand, he said to himself, sinking down onto the cold pavement next to the young man, or at least a coat. As Ciarán had said, it would do little good to save a life if he froze to death in the process.

Time seemed to slow to a crawl as he waited for the older boy to return, as if it, too, was having difficulties overcoming the cold. Every exposed inch of skin felt numb to the point of painfulness, especially when the wind blew, scattering raindrops like icy needles before it. He longed for the simple heat of the fireplace in the Ravenclaw common room, which he had always taken for granted, for the security and comfort of his bed, with its warm covers, or the feel of Ciarán's jacket, warmed by contact with the older boy's body. The thought of the older boy's body pressed against his own—warm, inviting, solid, reassuring—drove him to distraction and dredged up a welter of uncomfortable and strange feelings from deep inside of him, so that Aidan had to squeeze his eyes shut and grit his teeth to blot them from his mind's eye.

What is so wrong with admitting that I like him? he asked himself.

Morgan…

He's not Morgan.

No, but…I'm afraid anyway.

He sighed heavily, exhaling a large cloud of vapor which hung motionless in the air for a moment before slowly dispelling. He was afraid. Another reason I'm not suited to play the hero, he told himself, turning to consider the young man whose life he was attempting to save. It was Aidan's first opportunity to get a real look at the boy, and Aidan realized with a start that he recognized the sandy-haired young man as one of the members of Blair Tiernan's group.

"Nash," he breathed, feeling a chill run through him. "So Justin's your first name, is it?" He had not known the older boy's full name when he had been ambushed in the corridors by the trio consisting of Nock, Nash, and Tiernan earlier in the summer, but he well remembered the boy's malevolent laughter at his expense, the feel of Nock's inexorable grip on his shoulder and look of contempt on Tiernan's face as he drove the wind out of Aidan with one swift blow. Part of Aidan's mind told him he should be angry with Nash, and even went to far as to suggest abandoning the young man to his fate, but that part was overridden by a more pressing concern: someone had attacked a student. Whereas before Aidan had experienced the sense of urgency that came with helplessly looking on as another person was attacked, that feeling was now greatly intensified by the knowledge that the victim was someone he knew, however remotely.

"Never thought you'd be on the receiving end, did you?" Aidan murmured, kneeling down to stare at the pale figure, the onetime accomplice of his assailant, his enemy. Some part of his mind reasoned that that he should be exulting over the young man's misfortune, but he could not dredge up anything but sympathy for the boy, with his damp, limp hair plastered to his forehead, his shallow, raspy breathing, his thin, drawn expression. In the pale yellow light of the street lamps, he looked extremely vulnerable.

"Why you?" Aidan asked the unconscious young man, but there was, of course, no response. He sighed and turned away, his head full of questions and the ever-present reminders from his body that it was wet, cold, and uncomfortable.

Hurry up! Aidan urged Ciarán silently, peering hard into the wind and rain, willing the older boy's familiar form to appear. He had no idea how much time had passed since they found Justin, but he knew that every minute lost would make it that much more difficult to revive the boy in the end. Aidan hugged himself for warmth and turned his attention back to the questions seething in his mind. It occurred to him that "Why?" was not the most important question; "Who?" was. Who would skulk about the streets at night attacking students? Aidan had to admit that he did not know enough of the wizarding world to even hazard a guess at this question. Did wizards get mugged? It seemed strange to think that, with all of the magical powers at a person's disposal, with capabilities far transcending those of the average human being, they would still resort to something as base as robbery. Yet, he already had experience with the fact that a wizard could be a bully, just like a regular person—was it so hard to believe that a wizard was capable of worse things? But there was no evidence that anything had been taken from Justin, or that his attacker had wanted to do anything more than harm him. In fact, Aidan realized with mounting urgency, that was exactly what it had been: an attack purely for its own sake, and by someone who knew the victim. And that realization led to a horrifying conclusion: Justin had been attacked by another student.

It can't be. Aidan's mind reeled from the realization, his heart pounding out a staccato rhythm as its full import struck home. It was terrible enough to read about such things happening in the non-magical world—here, with the powers at their disposal, what atrocities one person could commit against another were magnified at least a hundred times over, so as to render the very thought of violence against another human being unthinkable, unimaginable. Yet it had happened, hadn't it? And Justin had suspected his aggressor, too—he asked, right before the attack, whether they knew each other. A chill ran up and down Aidan's spine and the street corner suddenly seemed extremely unsafe. The yellow glow of the street lamps had become harsh, glaring, and angry, and the utter darkness overhead and all around felt thick and menacing and filled Aidan with dread. The howling wind screeched at him and threw drops of rain like needles at every inch of exposed skin, so that Aidan was shivering with cold and with fright and wanted nothing more than to be back in the Ravenclaw common room, safe, warm, and dry. But he could not, would not leave his charge.

Where are you? Aidan demanded silently of Ciarán. Though he peered long and hard into the ominous darkness for any sign of the older boy or any other living person, no help was forthcoming. It now was imperative that Justin be taken away from here as expediently as possible, to someplace warm and safe—and Aidan had to admit that this was as much for Justin as it was for him—where he could recover and name his assailant. Even as Aidan stared expectantly down the street, hoping to catch a glimpse of someone to come to his aid, he was considering how he would manage to carry the unconscious young man back to the Three Broomsticks. His wand, lying as it was in the restricted section of the school library—or worse, confiscated by Filch—was of no use to him. Which left other, wholly non-magical means.

Although Nash was thin, he was taller than Aidan and it quickly became evident that Aidan would not be able to carry the older boy. About the best he could do was to drag Justin by his arms as gently as possible, but even in this he was only partially successful, collapsing after only a few minutes of effort underneath the eaves of the closest shop. Panting, he plumbed the shadows at the other end of the street once more, desperately seeking some sign of life, but in vain. There was not another soul about, and why should there be, in the middle of a night such as this one, when a person could be bundled up, warm and safe in bed, alone or resting against the sleeping form of another—Ciarán's coat, which smelled so much like the older boy might well have been Ciarán, pressed up against him, arms wrapped languidly around him…

Justin moaned softly, breaking Aidan from his reverie, a fact for which he was grateful. The chill was getting to him—yes, that was it. With deliberate effort, he turned his attention to the older boy who was trembling, eyes closed, brow furrowed in discomfort.

"You awake?" Aidan asked in a hushed tone. Justin did not reply, but his arms and legs continued to tremble. Hypothermia. He felt a surge of desperation—why hadn't Ciarán returned with help?—and hauled himself to his feet again, a bit unsteadily. The cold's getting to me, too. He shook his head to clear it and took hold of Justin's arms again. Grunting with effort, he managed to pull the boy across the wet pavement and underneath the overhang of the next closest shop. At this rate, Aidan thought wearily, breathing heavily, we'll never make it. It was hopeless. If only I had thought to bring my wand, he berated himself. What kind of wizard goes out to rescue someone without their wand? He let out an explosive breath, running one hand through his damp hair while wracking his brain for something, anything, any idea. But he could not see any way to quickly help Justin and himself that did not involve magic. And he couldn't do magic without a wand.

…Could he?

As desperate minds in dire straits will sometimes do, Aidan's mind seized upon an impossibility. Although technically possible, in that the most advanced wizards and witches could perform spells without the aid of a wand, Aidan had always considered it an impossibility simply because he knew he was not such a wizard, nor did he expect to be one any time soon, if at all. Even McGonagall used her wand, and she was the most highly-developed witch he knew.

"Your wand is your most important tool," she told him at the beginning of his summer lessons, "without which you would find yourself incapable of performing even the most rudimentary incantation. Only a well-disciplined and highly organized mind will ever progress beyond the need for one, and even then, the amount of effort required to effect the simplest of spells is considerable, so that use of the wand becomes preferable. The wise witch or wizard never goes anywhere without it."

I didn't pay very much attention to that, did I? Aidan thought sourly. Still, he could not shake the idea that perhaps, if he concentrated hard enough, he might be able to do it. After all, he had managed to defend himself from Morgan, what seemed like an eternity ago, and he had not needed a wand for that. No, but my life was in danger then. As the wind rose howling around him, he was forced to concede that his life might very well be in danger again, although in a different way than before. And not just mine, he thought, glancing at Justin's shivering form. Whatever I'm doing, I'd better be quick about it.

Where do I start? The wind was whistling past him, flinging icy droplets of rain, like shards of glass, to sear his frozen skin, as if the environment was doing everything possible to distract him in the moment when he needed his focus the most. Ciarán's coat was suddenly no longer adequate to keep out the chill, and Aidan stood shivering in the icy wind, fists clenched, eyes squeezed shut, gritting his teeth and concentrating with all his might on one thing: the Three Broomsticks. He might have chosen Hogwarts, except that the castle was farther away, and he wasn't certain if his attempt, made in desperation, would succeed—but if it was going to, it would help to avoid overtaxing himself. He tried to summon the image of the room as he had left it: the wooden tables, the stone fireplace against one wall, the single flickering candle above the door, the essence of the place as he had felt it. It was difficult, as he had not been paying much attention to his surroundings, diverted by the urgency of his mission, but he poured everything he could muster into reconstructing the image as best he could until he had it fixed in his mind.

The howling wind died down, as if growing distant—Yes, Aidan thought, urging that realization onward, take us there, go there, both of us, now, hurry! Some part of his mind become aware of sweat or rain or both trickling down his face, of a sudden warmth all around him, like a ring of fire that had sprung up around both of them, Justin and himself, and was pressing in on them, on the space they occupied, whirling around them like a pillar of fire, as if they were caught in the effects of Floo powder, only the flames weren't green, they were orange and yellow and red and blinding white, the color of starfire, of the raging inferno that consumes and provides heat and light and life at the same time. Gasping, Aidan opened his eyes and saw that the fire was real, that it surged and roared all around them, but not with ash and smoke nor even with overwhelming heat. The flames danced and flickered warmly, like friendly spirits—No, birds, Aidan dazedly corrected himself—beckoning him upward and onward with soft singing and gentle warmth, and then Aidan felt himself falling, plunging, with the sudden lurching sensation of freefall in the pit of his stomach, but in slow motion, like a dream in which you fall and fall and then you wake up. He cried out, threw out his hands to stop his descent and felt the wooden floor of the Three Broomsticks rise up to meet him.

I did it! he thought happily, his mind awash in the weary elation of extended effort. Panting, he tried to sit up, but the world would not remain still for him, and he collapsed back to the floor, relishing the firmness and the warmth, frowning slightly at the bright light which seemed to pervade the place before the darkness he expected descended upon him.