Phoenix Song
I SOLEMNLY SWEAR THAT I AM UP TO NO GOOD: This story contains strong language and strong situations. If you are under the legal age of consent for your room (or space), house (or dwelling), block (or zone), suburb (or community), city (or township), state (or province), country (or continent), league of countries (or nations), planet (or any satellite thereof), star system (or sector), federation of worlds (or space bodies), galaxy (or star cluster), or universe (or that which transcends it), or if scenes of violence and/or sexuality confuse or otherwise irritate and/or annoy you, go read the story with the Inoffensive Politically Correct Fluffy Bunnies entitled "Everyone's Unique (Which Makes them Exactly Alike)" instead of this one. Furthermore, be advised that I do not own the Harry Potter characters, their origins or their destinies, nor do I claim to; my power is limited to characters of my own creation. Should any of J. K. Rowling's characters desire to return to her domain, they are free to do so at any time, provided their transit paperwork is in order and they have received the appropriate inoculations.
THIRTEEN
Under proper lighting, it was evident that Three Broomsticks was nearly the same size as the Leaky Cauldron; but where the Leaky Cauldron felt dark and dingy to the point of being claustrophobic, the Three Broomsticks felt spacious and welcoming, due in large part to the amount of daylight that streamed in through its large windows. A majority of the room was given over to the fifteen small wooden tables and their accompanying chairs that served most of the pub's patrons, while two overstuffed arm chairs similar to the ones upstairs had been placed before the stone fireplace, in which a small fire now crackled cheerfully. On the wall nearest the stairs was the bar proper, made of a dark and highly-polished wood and lined by several stools. Behind the bar, Rosie was busying herself with plates and silverware; she smiled as the two boys entered the room and nodded toward the table closest to the fireplace at which McGonagall sat. Through the windows on the wall opposite the Headmistress, Aidan could see a rich blue sky with puffy white clouds drifting slowly by; all that remained of the previous night's storm. The day promised to be a bright and cheerful one.
If I survive.
McGonagall said nothing as the two boys approached the table, which only served to make Aidan uneasy; had she exploded at them, demanding that they return at once to the school and pack their bags, he would have been able to handle it, but she remained silent, her expression giving nothing away. Consequently, Aidan felt as if he was on uneven footing as he pulled a chair up to the small table at which the Headmistress sat, nursing a steaming mug of coffee. He cast an uncertain glance at Ciarán as they sat down; the older boy looked equally nonplussed but flashed him a quick reassuring smile.
I suppose I should be grateful she's not pummeling me with questions, Aidan thought. I wouldn't even know where to begin. Along those lines, Aidan was glad the Headmistress was not speaking, as his mind was still struggling to catch up with the events of the past fifteen minutes. He could hardly believe what—almost—happened in the bedroom, and he felt a tingle of excitement charge up and down his spine every time he contemplated it, an electric surge that reached all the way to his mouth. Try as he might, he couldn't help grinning, though he knew that would probably upset McGonagall even more, as she would think he was not taking the whole situation seriously. He did his best to distract himself with his more immediate problems.
It was Ciarán who finally broke the silence. "How's Justin?" he asked quietly.
McGonagall turned her inscrutable gaze on him, seeming to consider him for a moment before replying. "He will live," she said softly. "The immediate danger is past, but he has not yet regained consciousness."
"So we still don't know who attacked him," Aidan said.
"Not yet, Mister Hayes, unless you saw something else during your time in the library?"
Aidan tensed as she turned her attention back to him, but her expression gave nothing away. Is she going to expel me? The thought was made all the more terrible because it involved never seeing Ciarán again. Unless she expels him, too…
"No," Aidan said, shaking his head quickly. "I didn't see who attacked him."
McGonagall nodded slowly and sipped at her coffee. "I needn't explain to you, I hope, that your actions last night were irresponsible and highly reprehensible," she began, setting the mug down and staring at Aidan expectantly.
Here it is at last. Aidan shook his head mutely, casting his eyes downward.
"He probably saved Justin's life," Ciarán pointed out. Aidan looked over gratefully at the older boy, who returned his look with a resolute "don't-worry-we'll-figure-this-out" expression on his face.
"Indeed, Mister Dwyer, and it is only that fact which allows me any leeway at all to excuse his behavior."
Aidan relaxed with a happy sigh. He wasn't going to be expelled after all.
"You're not off the hook just yet, Mister Hayes," the Headmistress continued, noticing Aidan's relief. "Although I may be able to excuse your behavior by virtue of the life you saved, I will not sanction breaking into the restricted section of the school library, nor the unauthorized use of Floo powder, nor your failure to immediately notify the appropriate authorities, who, I might remind you, are far more qualified to handle events such as this one." Her nostrils flared slightly as she stared from Aidan to Ciarán; she was evidently repressing some extreme emotion. "Hogwarts unfortunately has a long history of students who feel compelled to take matters into their own hands, and while I may not be wholly able to do away with that ill-begotten tradition, I expect I can impress upon you both the wisdom of seeking assistance from the proper persons before you undertake to save the world?"
Both boys nodded quickly.
"We have lost our fair share of students who thought they were equal to the task they ever so impetuously chose to tackle only to discover, all too late, that they were not," McGonagall told them. Her voice was tight and there was the faintest echo of sorrow in her eyes that struck deeply within Aidan, stirring up feelings of guilt and remorse; it never occurred to him that she actually cared about the welfare of her students outside that which was required of her as a function of her duties as Headmistress. McGonagall took another breath before speaking again, in a steadier tone of voice. "In an effort to quell some of your impulsiveness, you shall both receive detention for a month. Furthermore, when term starts officially, Ravenclaw house will have twenty-five points taken from it, as will your house, Mister Hayes, whichever one that happens to be."
Ciarán opened his mouth to protest, but McGonagall held up her hand.
"I shall not be swayed, Mister Dwyer, and you can be thankful that it is only twenty-five points. Perhaps your energies should be directed into channels that will help both of your houses to regain those points, instead of finding expression in other ways." The Headmistress regarded them both knowingly. "While we're on the subject of impulsive behavior, I want to make it very clear that, notwithstanding the fact that I am happy that the two of you have found such good friends in each other, the halls and rooms of Hogwarts are to be used only for academic pursuits. Is that understood?"
"I have no idea what you're talking about," replied Ciarán with a straight face.
Aidan had to stifle his laughter with a sudden fit of coughing.
"I hope and pray that is the case, Mister Dwyer. You're both far too young just yet for that sort of thing." Though she sounded stern, Aidan thought he saw the faintest hint of a wry smile playing at the corner of McGonagall's mouth. Regardless, the tension seemed to have drained from the room with the pronouncement of their sentence, and Rosie, with an unerring sense of timing, bustled over with bowls of porridge, smiling broadly.
"And you were worried," she said teasingly to Aidan, setting a steaming bowl before him.
"As well he might have been," remarked McGonagall. "He has sense enough for that, at least."
Aidan barely heard her; he was too busy shoveling porridge into his mouth. His stomach, long-ignored, had been awakened by the smell of food and took great pains to inform him of just how ravenous he was. It required another helping of porridge and a plate of eggs and sausages before his stomach was satisfied and Aidan could turn his attention once again to conversation.
"—without a wand," Ciarán was saying animatedly. The older boy had taken to recounting the events of the previous night while Aidan was otherwise occupied.
"Indeed," replied the Headmistress, considering Aidan thoughtfully.
"I don't think I could do it again," Aidan said diffidently. "It took a lot of effort."
"He could hardly stand when he got here," Rosie agreed, having pulled a chair of her own up to the small table after seeing everyone had enough to eat. "He had to be carried upstairs."
"He wouldn't have, if you had just let me borrow your wand," Ciarán accused her.
"Don't pretend it bothered you," she countered. "I know it didn't bother him, did it, Aidan?"
Aidan blushed and coughed self-consciously. Ciarán likewise colored slightly and looked away. "Well…"
"Must you encourage them?" the Headmistress inquired of Rosie with a pained expression on her face.
"Actually, Headmistress, I don't think they need much encouragement," the young woman replied with a sly smile on her face.
"Perhaps, but then it would be best to remain neutral, don't you think?"
"Oh, absolutely," Rosie agreed all too readily, nodding enthusiastically. "Neutrality is undoubtedly the safest course, and the one I intend to take." She turned to the two boys, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "Boys, I don't care what you—"
"That is not what I meant!" McGonagall exploded.
"I'm sorry, Headmistress, I thought that's what you—"
"Never mind," McGonagall interrupted wearily, withdrawing a pocket watch from the folds of her robe and looking at it with evident relief. "We need to be going."
"Is it ten o'clock already?" asked Rosie, standing up, all traces of mischief gone from her demeanor. "I need to get ready to open." She began collecting their dishes and utensils.
"Let me help you with those," Ciarán offered, rising to his feet.
"Very gallant of you, Mister Dwyer," Rosie replied, unceremoniously placing the dirty dishes in his outstretched arms.
"I didn't mean all of them!" Ciarán protested, following the empty-handed young woman behind the bar.
"Ah, should've been more specific, then: 'Let me help you with some of those, Rosie,' eh?"
McGonagall watched them disappear through the doorway behind the bar with faint amusement before turning her attention to Aidan. "When we return to the castle, I want a few words with you concerning your visions."
Aidan nodded. "May we look in on Justin first?"
The Headmistress considered him unblinkingly for a short time before she replied. "We shall stop by the hospital wing first, yes. It's a mark of great maturity, Mister Hayes, that you are able to find concern within yourself for a young man who is a notorious bully."
Does she know what happened between Blair and me? Aidan wondered. It was not improbable; there seemed to be no limit to McGonagall's awareness, but Aidan had not told her. "He's still a person," he pointed out softly. Despite what happened in the hallway at the beginning of the summer, he nevertheless felt a certain sense of responsibility toward the older boy and, in fact, a sense of concern that had not been there prior to the vision. In any event, he's not the real bully—Blair is.
"Indeed."
"Thank you for your kind assistance, Mister Dwyer," said Rosie with due gravity as she and Ciarán reappeared behind the bar. "Rest assured that I shall not forget it. I may even be able to employ you as a kitchen hand provided, of course, that you promise to pay for any dishes you break."
"No, thank you," Ciarán replied in an equally formal tone, "I should prefer to remain a customer and break as many dishes as I please," whereupon they both burst into laughter.
"If you've quite finished," said McGonagall mildly, rising from her chair and gesturing toward the fireplace. The two boys walked over to the fireplace and took down the jar of the Floo Powder. "Thank you for your hospitality, Rosie," the Headmistress said as Ciarán tossed a handful of the emerald powder into the flames, which obediently leapt up and turned a fiery green.
The young proprietress smiled and shook her head, holding up a staying hand. "Not necessary," she told McGonagall, "it's my business. Come back often, you two," she added to Ciarán and Aidan, and then, catching McGonagall's look, quickly amended: "With permission, of course." She beamed. "You too, Headmistress."
"I shall," McGonagall promised, casting an ironic glance at her two charges. "Often."
"Shall we?" Ciarán inquired, replacing the jar of Floo Powder.
"Let's," Aidan said. The two boys took each other's hands and stepped into the flames. "Hogwarts!" they cried and vanished in a great rush of green fire and emerald smoke.
"Good luck with those two," Rosie said dryly as McGonagall stepped into the flames.
"Have a large brandy waiting for me when I return," the Headmistress responded evenly. "Hogwarts!"
As promised, the Headmistress led them directly to the hospital wing. Several beds, dressed in white, lined each side of the narrow hall, but only one at the far end was presently occupied. Aidan and Ciarán quietly approached the bed on which Justin Nash lay while McGonagall went off to confer with Madame Pomfrey. The older boy looked extremely pale, perhaps a trifle less so than the sheets which covered him; his auburn hair was limp and matted, and there was a look of discomfort on his face. His breathing was so shallow that at first Aidan was afraid he wasn't breathing at all until he saw the almost imperceptible rise and fall of the boy's chest beneath the blanket.
"He doesn't look good," Aidan observed quietly.
"Did he ever?" Ciarán asked.
"You know what I mean."
"He'll get better," said Ciarán confidently.
"I hope so," said Aidan fervently, recalling the look of shock and recognition on Justin's face just before the spell struck him. He knows who did it. And his attacker's still out there, free to attack again unless we find out who they are. He shivered slightly, recalling the feel of the wand in his hand as power erupted from it, an incandescent white light, blazing in the night, lighting up Justin's terrified features…
It wasn't me! he angrily reminded himself. It was just a vision!
He shivered again and unconsciously stepped closer to Ciarán, letting the older boy's warmth and solidity reassure him. It was just a vision.
Hesitantly, as if the act was something new to him, Ciarán wrapped his arms around Aidan, pulling him close. They stood silently, looking at Justin's still form, each boy lost in thought, until McGonagall reemerged from Madame Pomfrey's office with a rolled piece of parchment in one hand.
"Would you take this letter to the owlery for me?" the Headmistress asked Ciarán. "The parents of young Mister Nash need to be informed of their son's condition, and I need a few moments alone with Mister Hayes."
The older boy nodded. "Of course. I'll see you in a while," he said to Aidan, taking the roll of parchment from McGonagall's hand.
"I'm quite certain of that," the Headmistress said dryly. "Come into the office, Mister Hayes."
Aidan watched Ciarán go with mixed feelings, the meanings of which were not all apparent to him, before following McGonagall into Madame Pomfrey's office, which reminded him strongly of a doctor's office, but without the examination table. A desk and several wooden filing cabinets occupied most of the space in the small room; various charts detailing different parts of human and not-so-human anatomy were pinned to the wall, and an altogether-too-realistic skeleton hung in one corner. Madame Pomfrey was bustling about her desk, cleaning up rolls of parchment; she looked up as Aidan and McGonagall entered.
"May we borrow your office for a few minutes, Poppy?"
"Of course," the other woman replied, "if you don't mind a bit of disorganization."
"Not at all," the Headmistress said, more out of courtesy, Aidan suspected, than actual fact; McGonagall was well-known for her tidiness.
"Right," said Madame Pomfrey, tossing the armful of parchment she carried back onto the desk. "If you'll excuse me." She strode out and closed the door behind her.
The Headmistress indicated a wooden chair on the near side of the desk with one outstretched hand. "Have a seat."
Obediently, Aidan sat while McGonagall briefly eyed the pile of paper on the desk with obvious distaste before turning her attention back to him.
"Mister Filch tells me you had in your possession a book about the Dark Arts at the time he apprehended you," McGonagall began, seating herself on the other side of the desk and peering at Aidan over the top of her spectacles. "I'm sure you've discovered for yourself why such books are thus restricted, so I won't lecture you on the necessity of respecting such a boundary."
"I won't do it again," Aidan promised, remembering the hideous face that had leered up at him out of the pages of the book and wishing Ciarán were still present. Oh, come on, he scolded himself, I don't need him to hold me for every little fright.
No, but it's nice, said another voice.
"I believe you, but I would like to know why you chose that particular book."
"I didn't. Not at first, anyway. I was trying to find out about the Third Darkness," Aidan explained. "That's why I broke into the library."
"Did it never occur to you to ask me first?"
Aidan considered his response for a moment before settling on the truth. "I was afraid you'd say no," he admitted. "Nobody has wanted to tell me anything since I got here, except for the portrait you keep in your office."
"There is such a thing as knowing too much, Mister Hayes, particularly if you are not yet capable of handling the information you seek. Nevertheless," McGonagall continued, holding up a hand to forestall Aidan's protest that he could handle the information, if she would only give it to him, "that is not the primary reason I wished to speak with you."
Aidan nodded, deciding to let the matter drop for the time being. "You said you wanted to know about my visions."
"Precisely," the Headmistress affirmed. "I would like you to tell me everything you can recall seeing in your visions, starting with your most recent one."
"Didn't Dumbledore tell you?"
"No. He told me you would tell me when you were ready. The man can be most vexing when he wishes it."
"He must have been even more fun in real life," Aidan remarked without thinking, catching himself only after the words had already come out of his mouth. "I'm sorry," he apologized.
"He was indeed," the Headmistress replied, waving his apology aside. "Tell me about your most recent vision. What did you see?"
"I saw it in the pages of the book first," Aidan began, finding the memory easy to recall and not at all sure he liked it. "It was kind of like watching it on a television—do you know what those are?"
"I'm not completely ignorant," the Headmistress answered dryly. "Go on."
"Sorry. Well, when I leaned in to get a closer look, I—I don't know how, but I fell into the book. Does that make any sense?"
McGonagall nodded. "Continue."
"After that, it was like I was there, in the place I saw—Hogsmeade, though I didn't know that at the time—watching what was happening."
The Headmistress leaned forward, staring keenly at him. "Were you an active participant in what unfolded after that?"
Aidan hesitated. Do I tell her the truth? And let her think I attacked Justin? But she's got to know I didn't. I couldn't have—I was in the library; I even got caught by Filch. And why would I go through all that trouble to save him if I was the one who attacked him? Though he could not deny those facts, he could not shake the reality of the wand in his hand, its solidity, the way it felt as he wielded it; sleek and cool to the touch even as it blazed with brilliant white light, even as it cut Justin down…
"Mister Hayes?"
"Sorry?" Aidan asked, coming to. How easy it had been to slip back into the memory, the feel of the events, as if he had personally been there—but that was impossible, wasn't it? How will I convince her if I can't even convince myself?
"No," he finally answered. "I was there, but I couldn't do anything." That was partially true, anyway; he couldn't stop the attack or warn Justin, though he tried.
McGonagall nodded slowly. "Very well. Continue."
"I saw a figure waiting outside of one of the shops," Aidan continued carefully, all the while repeating, It wasn't me, it wasn't me, it wasn't me, in his head. "It looked like it was expecting someone."
"Can you describe it?"
"Er…" Here Aidan was at a loss. "No," he said at length. Which was true enough; he couldn't accurately describe the attacker, having been the—been inside the attacker. "It was wearing a cloak," he quickly added. Though he couldn't be certain if it was the truth, it did make sense, as otherwise Justin would have been able to identify his assailant immediately.
"Could you make out any identifying features at all?"
Aidan shook his head. "No."
The Headmistress sighed and sat back in her chair. "Then it seems we shall have to wait for Mister Nash to recover before we discover the assailant's identity. Go on."
"There's not much else," Aidan said, eager to make an end of the half-truth he was being forced to spin. "Justin came out of one of the shops, and the figure followed him. I thought something bad was about to happen, so I followed both of them. When they got to the last street corner, the figure caught him up. It looked like Justin recognized who it was, but before he could do anything, the figure attacked him."
Power pulsing from the wand, a bright white light, the taste of fear…
Aidan shook his head to clear it. "I tried to warn him, but I couldn't," he added.
"What was the spell the attacker used?"
The feel of the wand, the look on Justin's face…
It wasn't me!
"I don't remember the exact words," Aidan said, shifting uncomfortably.
"Try to remember, Mister Hayes, as it may give us something to go on."
Aidan concentrated, trying to work his way backward from the flash of light, the feel of the wand, the pure terror on Justin's face; backward, before the attack, before the blinding light and the feel of triumph, reveling in the other boy's fear. The thrill of power, that was what it was, and he liked it, it was intoxicating, and this was only the beginning, there were others, many, many others, and he would do the same thing to them all.
It wasn't me! I had no control!
How could something that felt so real be unreal? Wasn't I there? Didn't I do those things?
No!
The look on Justin's face, why did that haunt him so?
Because I've been on the receiving end of someone's lust for power, just like him.
For, he realized, that was exactly why Morgan had done it, for the sense of power, of complete and utter control over another life. His life. And even though he had been the victim, there had been planted within him the seed of darkness—he felt it, burning like a cold fire, like the essence of night without stars, warping the space it occupied, warping his heart, draining him of all life—and wasn't it conceivable, given his powers, that it might branch out, find ways and means of expression that Morgan could not even dream of?
No! I won't be like Morgan! I won't!
Too late. You made that decision on the first night, when you secretly enjoyed what he was doing to you. And now you've found a way to do the same thing to others.
He imagined Ciarán's face in place of Justin's as he roared the curse, the look of shock and surprise and sorrow and betrayal and loss and utter surrender to the inevitable, the look that says "I love you anyway"—all of that would all commingle on the older boy's face as he struck him down, the sense of power that came from striking down your best friend—and his mind recoiled, rebelled against the imagery but could not overcome it.
You've already done it once, said Morgan's voice in the vaults of his mind, and you liked it. You'd do it again. Even to your best friend, your only friend.
"No!" Aidan cried out and clasped his head in his hands, trying to wipe the sensations from his mind. He felt dirty all over, like he'd never be clean again, like a thousand baths would not remove the stain of what he was, what Morgan had made of him, what he tried to deny but what ultimately resurfaced: evil.
"What is it?" the Headmistress asked, startled.
"I can't do it!" Aidan said in a shaky voice, on the verge of tears.
"It was just a question, Mister Hayes. Where are you going? Come back!"
Aidan wasn't listening to her; he was panting hard, his heart was pounding loudly in his head, his thoughts were racing, and he was racing for the door. He wrenched it open and dashed out into the hospital wing, past a startled Madame Pomfrey, and through the doors into the corridor outside.
I won't do it, he thought, tears streaming down his face as he ran down the hall. I won't hurt Ciarán. He might not be able to stop the darkness that was in him from coming out, but he could go so far away that Ciarán would never be at risk. I'll never see him again.
The thought was a wrenching one, but it only served to steel his resolve. He flew down the stairs, nearly colliding with someone; he did not look up to see who it was, intent on pushing past them, on getting to the great wooden doors in the entrance hall, getting far away from this place, but something caught his wrist: a hand, pulling him close and then he was sobbing uncontrollably, pounding his free hand against Ciarán's chest while the older boy held him tightly, a dark rock in the stormy sea he'd become, resolute, unyielding even as the waves crashed over it.
"It's okay," Ciarán whispered. "It's okay."
"No, it's not!" Aidan cried. "I'm the one who attacked Justin."
"Impossible," the older boy stated flatly.
"No, you don't understand, I was there, I was holding the wand, I wanted to hurt him, I'm a h-horrible person and—"
"I thought you broke into the library," Ciarán reminded him. "How can you be in two places at once?"
Coming from Ciarán, the question sounded so reasonable, Aidan longed to believe the implications. But Morgan's smirking visage hovered in the background of his mind as if to say, You know better.
"There's something else bothering you," Ciarán deduced shrewdly. "Something you're not telling me."
Aidan's wracking sobs had subsided to the merest hiccough, leaving him feeling strangely exposed and vulnerable, and it didn't help that Ciarán seemed to know, or at least suspect, more than Aidan wanted. "It's nothing," he murmured, sniffing and wiping the back of his eyes with his free hand.
"No, it isn't," Ciarán persisted gently. "Look, I know a secret when I see one. You can tell me."
Aidan looked up at the older boy's tender, earnest expression and very nearly melted. "I—"
If you tell him, he'll know you enjoyed it. He'll know just exactly what kind of person you are, and what will he think of you then? You'll lose him.
But it would be such a relief to tell someone, to not have to carry the pain and sorrow and guilt in silence anymore.
Can I risk losing him?
But what will it matter if I end up hurting him anyway?
"—can't," he finished, looking away from the older boy lest he see the disappointment there, in his eyes, that came with knowing Aidan didn't trust him enough to reveal his secret. "I want to, but I can't," he amended lamely.
"Okay, you don't have to, but if you ever want to tell me anything, you can."
"Thank you," Aidan murmured, quite abruptly feeling completely drained.
"Okay," the older boy repeated. "Shall we go back upstairs?"
Aidan nodded, letting Ciarán lead him back up the stairs and down the corridor to the hospital wing, where both Madame Pomfrey and Headmistress McGonagall were waiting.
"Look who I ran into," Ciarán said with a grin. "Well, he ran into me, actually."
"All right?" Madame Pomfrey inquired. "Let me feel your forehead," she instructed, placing one hand on Aidan's head. "Thirty-seven degrees exactly," she declared after a moment.
"I'm fine," Aidan said wearily, brushing her hand away. Already the overwhelming feelings had receded, leaving only emptiness and exhaustion in their wake.
"Indeed?" McGonagall looked dubious.
"I think he's still worn out from last night's excitement," Ciarán said. "He probably just needs to rest."
McGonagall arched her eyebrows and turned toward Madame Pomfrey. "I think we'll let an expert rule on that, if you don't mind, Mister Dwyer."
"Well, he hasn't got a temperature," Madame Pomfrey said, turning toward Ciarán. "What was he doing last night?"
"Apparating without a wand," replied the older boy, grinning broadly as if Aidan's feat was the greatest thing he had ever seen.
"Oh? Well, there you are, then!" exclaimed Madame Pomfrey. "Plenty of food and rest will set him right."
"Would you mind if he spent the night here, then?" McGonagall inquired.
"Oh, I hardly think it's that serious, Minerva," said Madame Pomfrey dismissively. "He can get plenty of rest in the dormitories."
The Headmistress cast a glance at Ciarán. "Somehow I doubt that."
"If you insist, but I really don't think—"
Madame Pomfrey was interrupted by a low moan from the far bed, on which Justin lay. Almost as one, the four of them hurried over to the bed, where Justin was stirring fitfully.
"Is he awake?" Aidan asked, momentarily forgetting his fatigue. His question was answered for him by Justin himself as the boy gasped loudly and sat up quickly, breathing heavily and looking around the room with a panicked expression on his face. His eyes lit on Aidan and he scrambled backward, tumbling from the bed despite Madame Pomfrey's valiant efforts to grab hold of him.
"You!" he hissed, scrambling to his feet and pointing an accusing finger at Aidan. "You did this to me!"
Aidan's stomach lurched as his worst fears were confirmed. He sought to run, but Ciarán's fist closed tightly on his wrist. "You were in the library," he said firmly.
"He's delirious," Madame Pomfrey said, withdrawing her wand from her robes. "I'm just going to help you calm down," she said soothingly to Justin, pointing the wand at him.
"No!" Justin cried, leaping onto the bed and snatching the wand from her outstretched hand.
"Easy!" said Madame Pomfrey, holding up her hands as Justin swung the wand around in an arc and pointed it directly at Aidan's chest.
"Put the wand down, Mister Nash," said McGonagall firmly.
Justin shook his head and swallowed hard, a sheen of perspiration visible on his skin. "No! I know he did it, somehow, as revenge!"
"For what?" McGonagall demanded.
"Blair started that fight in the hallway and you know it!" Ciarán exploded angrily.
"You don't know what he is, do you?" Justin asked, staring at the Headmistress in disbelief. "He's not natural," he continued in a quivering voice. "He's not a wizard at all! He's a perversion of everything wizardry stands for!"
He knows, Aidan thought, and Morgan's laughter echoed in his ears.
"Put the wand down," McGonagall repeated.
"No!" Justin roared, stamping his foot on the mattress. "Say goodbye to your boyfriend, Dwyer!" There was a terrible light in his eyes, and in that moment Aidan knew with heart-stopping certainty that Justin meant to kill him.
Good, said a voice, then I won't be able to hurt anyone else.
But I'll miss Ciarán, said another.
Two things happened in quick succession before Aidan even had time to react: Ciarán cried out, "No!" and threw himself in front of Aidan even as Justin snarled, "Avada Kedavra!"
A split second later, McGonagall had withdrawn her own wand from her robes. "Expelliarmus!" she thundered. An equally thunderous bang resounded in the enclosed space of the hospital wing, rattling the windows in their frames, accompanied by a brilliant flash of crimson light which sent Justin reeling back into the far wall. He stared in disbelief as Madame Pomfrey's wand flew out of his hand and came clattering to the floor several feet away and then the Headmistress was upon him, livid with rage, brandishing her wand threateningly and shouting at the top of her lungs.
"NO ONE USES AN UNFORGIVABLE CURSE IN MY SCHOOL!"
But Justin was not paying the slightest bit of attention to the Headmistress, who was angrier than Aidan had ever seen her. He was gazing with dread at his hands, flexing them experimentally, and there was no mistaking the panic in his voice when he spoke.
"It didn't work. It always works."
McGonagall's expression turned harder than ice. "Are you saying you've used the Killing Curse before?"
Justin ignored her, gaping at his trembling hands. "The magic's gone." He was panting heavily, sweat was trickling down his face, and the manic light had gone from his eyes, replaced by a look of desperation. "The magic's gone! It's gone!"
"What does he mean?" Madame Pomfrey asked.
"Didn't you see?" Ciarán asked shakily, wincing as Aidan helped him up from the floor where he had landed. "Nothing happened when he performed the curse."
Madame Pomfrey goggled at Justin as the realization dawned on her. "It can't be."
"It's not possible," McGonagall snapped, but even she looked upset and less than certain.
"What could take away magical ability?" Madame Pomfrey murmured. A terrible silence descended upon the four as they watched the Slytherin boy rock himself gently against the wall, tears streaming down his face as he repeated, over and over again, "It's gone."
