Phoenix Song

I SOLEMNLY SWEAR THAT I AM UP TO NO GOOD: This story has everything you could ever want in it: strong language, strong situations, sex—so if you are under the legal age of consent for your (choose from the following: room, house, block, suburb, city, state, country, league of countries, planet, star system, constellation, galaxy, or universe) or if scenes of violence and/or sexuality confuse and/or otherwise irritate you, then you should put this away and go read the newspaper. Because you definitely won't find anything like that in there.

Additionally, please note that I have no control over the Harry Potter characters we all know and love so much as to be obsessive and create stories for—only J.K. Rowling may be called their god, and it is she that owns them and who decides whether they live or die. My powers extend only to my own characters, who are mine, and who will all die anyway! (Or not).

Be warned: there's sex in this chapter! If such a thing bothers you, then go pretend sex doesn't exist (while your significant other takes advantage of the fact that it does).

FIFTEEN

It took a few moments for Aidan's consciousness to register where he was going; though he was running like the first time, seemingly oblivious to his surroundings, hearing nothing but the roar in his mind, the insistent thud of his heart against his ribcage, the shuddering breaths he took at intervals—it was different this time. Some part of himself was aware enough to guide him up the spiral stone stairs that led to Ravenclaw tower, past the grouchy stone occamy, and into the common room, where he expected to find Ciarán waiting for him. But Ciarán was not there, and it felt like a violation of the natural order of things as Aidan's overwrought mind struggled to come to terms with the conclusions the Grey Lady had drawn for him—struggled and failed, like a sluggish engine trying to turn over and never quite building the impetus. It's not true; it isn't true, it can't be true—the thoughts chased each other round in circles in his head, making him feel dizzy, causing him to sink to the blue carpet, fighting back tears, struggling to hold back the anguish and despair—and succeeding at neither effort.

Aidan wished time would slow to a crawl; he wished the entire universe would pause and take notice of what it was putting him through. It wasn't fair, it wasn't right to give him an identity and then cloud it with doubt, to give him a friend—and more than a friend, if even only for a few moments—only to take him away. Ciarán would be taken away, if everything that the Grey Lady had caused him to understand was true, and so he steeled his resolve, he willed it not to be, willed reality to bend to his will for once, instead of the other way around. But the universe remained immune to his efforts, neither slowing nor taking notice of the attempts of one thirteen year-old boy to change the entire course of his history. The laws of reality were immutable; Aidan was powerless to stop them, and so he sat on the blue carpeted floor, rocking back and forth, crying silent tears while the portraits muttered softly to themselves on the wall and the fire crackled loudly in the grate.

Only time seemed pliable, only his perception of it could be modified, slowed, so that he could half-forget, in the space of a heartbeat, what it was that had upset him; it seemed as if his entire life had been one long stretch of despair and flight from that despair. The sorrow had always been there, hadn't it, always hovered over everything that he did and everything that had happened to him, an undercurrent of reality that could not be seen, only heard, like the silent song of the phoenix in his dreams: mournful, all-encompassing, and very old. There was a slight lilt to the phoenix song; a sweet, solitary note at the end that, when sustained, spoke volumes, even in the darkest depths of space. "Everything may yet turn out all right," said that note, "only believe it will be so." Aidan did not feel hopeful, he thought he might not believe; his life had not yet reached that final note.

Presently, Aidan came to, finding that he was lying quietly on the carpet, staring at the flames that danced energetically over the glowing logs in the fireplace. There was something calming about the fire, something at once friendly and reassuring in the way the yellows, oranges and reds leapt high into the air, borne upward on the draft created by the flames before disappearing in a thin tendril of smoke. It was oddly entrancing. Without knowing why, Aidan was drawn to them, his overwrought mind desperate to soothe the dull ache he felt. He sat up and crawled over to the hearth, where the warmth of the flames at once washed over him, welcomed him, warmed him, promised to ward off all that was dark and bad and terrible to feel. Aidan longed for the peace the fire seemed to hint at; unthinkingly, he held his hands out, watching the glow of the fire dance over his skin. A second or two passed before Aidan realized he was warming his hands in the fire rather than over it. With a start, he jerked them away, expecting to feel the searing pain of a major burn, but it did not come. His skin registered only gentle warmth, like sunlight, and when he held his hands up before his face to examine them, there was no indication that they had been exposed to excessive heat, even though the sleeves of his shirt had turned jet black.

Curious, he turned back to the fireplace, momentarily forgetting his woes in the face of the unexplained. Something registered in the back of his mind as he stared at the flames, something like recognition. As far back as his memory permitted him to explore, Aidan could find no record of his ever having been burned by fire, although he had always assumed that was because he knew enough to be careful around it. But was that the case?

In response to his summons, a memory floated up into his consciousness, a memory from only three or four years before. Elisa had been bedridden with the flu, and Morgan was out of town, leaving Aidan to care for her as best as a nine year-old could. He remembered sticking his head into her bedroom, asking if she needed anything and worrying because she looked so pale he was afraid she might pass away and leave him alone with Morgan.

"No," Elisa had replied softly in response to his question. "Just rest." Aidan had nodded and slowly backed out, closing the door behind him; all the while his stomach was clenched in fear for Elisa's safety. He decided to make tea for her, since he could nothing else. He fervently hoped she would get better; he did not want to be alone in the house with Morgan. There might never again be a reprieve from the terrible things the man visited on him. Doing his best to repress these thoughts, Aidan made his way down to the kitchen.

Elisa had an old silver teakettle, the kind that whistled from the stove top when the water boiled; Aidan filled it and set it on to boil, as he had seen Elisa do countless times when she was entertaining visitors. The difficulty arose when it came time to remove the kettle from the stove; since it had been made during a time when no one believed in insulated handles, he quickly discovered that he would not be able to pick it up. As he nursed his singed fingers, his eyes lit upon the roll of paper towels on the counter by the sink. Without considering the combustibility of paper when brought into close proximity with a gas-fueled flame, Aidan tore a few sheets from the roll.

What happened next was, for the most part, to be expected. The paper towels caught flame as Aidan attempted to grab the handle of the tea kettle, and Aidan yelped in surprise as he noticed the small fire he had on his hands, quite literally—the flames were hungrily making their way across the surface of the paper towels around which his hands were wrapped. He dropped the paper towels at once, and the fire fluttered lazily to the floor, dying down as the paper blackened and turned to ash.

Aidan remembered staring at his hands then, too, trying to figure out why he had not been burned and writing it off as luck. But it hadn't been luck; it had been something in Aidan himself, something that both recognized the fire and welcomed it as a friend, as something akin to itself.

Fire is my element. His breathing quickened in time with his pace as the thought clicked, as another piece of the puzzle that was Aidan Hayes fell into place. Certainly it made sense, didn't it? Everything, every piece of magic that he had done here at Hogwarts—and elsewhere—dealt with fire, expressed itself as burning flame. Even in his dreams there was fire: in the firebird talked to him and in the stars that poured forth light and heat and vast amounts of power, filling the void with soundless fury, a roar that could be heard in the mind, that was at once both triumphant and defiant as the light, the fire, drove back the darkness.

Fire is my element. It was the simple truth; so simple, so undeniably real that his mind accepted it at once without question. Aidan did not know why or how, and for the moment it made no difference; fire was his element. Fire was his essence. Before Aidan could press much further in his mounting excitement at his discovery, his thought process was abruptly disrupted by a sudden rush of cold air, which blew past him to extinguish the fire in the fireplace, leaving only glowing coals as a testament to the onetime existence of the flames. Startled, Aidan turned to see who had entered the common room and found himself staring at Ciarán. At once, the momentary thrill of excitement that came with self-discovery was snuffed out, much like the flames in the fireplace, and the conflicting emotions of a few moments before resurged with a vengeance. It was all Aidan could do to keep them down, all he could do to keep himself from shaking as he warily watched the older boy stride over to the couch before him and throw himself down.

"What's wrong?" Ciarán asked, noticing the tension in the younger boy's gaze, in his posture. The only light in the room now was provided by the sunlight streaming through the high windows; it reflected from Ciarán's dark hair and liquid blue eyes, softened his features slightly around the edges of his face, where the faint peach fuzz refracted the golden light.

You don't look like the kind of person who attacks someone and takes away all their powers, Aidan thought, feeling his heart ache as it struggled with his mind for dominance. Aidan was torn in two, caught between doubt in the older boy and hope that somehow Ciarán might still be innocent, but it was a slim hope, as tenuous as a single strand of spider silk glinting in sunlight; beautiful to look at, but of no consequence to the one who chose to pass through it. Yet while it was whole, it was strong; though it wavered and shook before the howling gale that was Aidan's doubt in Ciarán's trustworthiness, that single gleaming filament of light did not break.

"What is it?" Ciarán asked again, leaning forward, concern inscribed in his features.

Aidan took a deep breath, as one does before plunging into icy waters, and asked the question to which he feared he already knew the answer. "Why...why were you in Hogsmeade last night, Ciarán?"

The older boy frowned. "I was helping you out."

Aidan shook his head. "No, I mean before that. Before we found Justin." His eyes searched Ciarán's own for some emotion, some reaction to the mention of Justin's name, but there was only faint puzzlement there. What was I expecting?

Guilt. Aidan brushed the thought aside and waited for Ciarán to reply.

The older boy shifted uncomfortably on the couch, coughing and looking embarrassed. "I, uh—I was trying to find something," he said finally.

Or someone, Aidan thought sorrowfully. He's not telling me everything. Tears sprang to his eyes as he considered the older boy, his eyes taking in every inch of Ciarán's frame, and it took a moment for Aidan to realize that he was imprinting the essence of Ciarán on his memory for what would be the last time; he was attempting to capture the older boy's essence as best as he could before the end. Because it surely would end; Aidan knew that much. He felt neither strong nor certain where Ciarán was concerned, but he knew McGonagall would find out what Ciarán had done, and he would be the one who told her. The thought that he would become the instrument of Ciarán's downfall rent his heart in half.

Ciarán must have caught some hint of Aidan's internal struggle because he stood up at once and stepped closer to the younger boy, resting both hands on Aidan's shoulders. "Hey," he said softly, "what's bothering you?"

Aidan bit down hard on his lower lip to keep it from trembling, staring resolutely on Ciarán's chest in front of him, refusing to meet the older boy's eyes for fear his resolve would melt. It was hard enough to maintain as it was; he wanted to wrap his arms around the other boy, he wanted to hold on to him and never let go, he wanted to shut out the rest of the universe, ignore the twinges of his conscience and the constant repetition of his rational mind. He's guilty. He attacked Justin. He's guilty.

Perhaps it was because of that unbroken strand of hope, but Aidan could not bring himself to make the accusation. Rather, he said in an unsteady voice, "You were the only other one who went to Hogsmeade last night. They might—they might think that—" He trailed off, looking meaningfully up at Ciarán's face, where a look of comprehension dawned.

"Oh," Ciarán breathed. He took a step backward and sank back down onto the couch. Aidan felt as though the short distance between the older boy and himself may as well have been a chasm of a thousand miles.

"I just don't know if I—if I could lose you, now that I've found you," Aidan found himself confessing in halting tones as his emotions battered against his restraints. He had not meant to admit it, but it was the truth. He did not want to be alone against the world again. He desperately wanted Ciarán to tell him something believable, something that would forever remove the possibility that they might be separated.

Ciarán did not look at him and it seemed as though a wall had sprung up between them. "What do you think?" he said finally, staring at the empty fireplace. "Am I guilty?"

Yes. No. Aidan's heart and mind battled for control of his voice, but neither succeeded in taking it. "I don't know," Aidan replied softly.

A shadow crossed the older boy's face, a look of pain that was quickly suppressed. He turned his gaze on Aidan and considered him sorrowfully for a moment. Nothing needed to be said; the look in the older boy's eyes said it all.

"But why?" Aidan wailed, all of his restraints giving way as his worst fears were finally, incontrovertibly confirmed. Ciarán would be taken away, he would never see him again, he would never feel his reassuring presence—he would be alone.

"I'm sorry," Ciarán said tightly, and there were tears in his eyes, too; it was the closest Aidan had seen the older boy to crying. "I never meant for you to be involved. I didn't reckon on your gift."

The words hardly registered in Aidan's mind, he was swimming in so much sorrow he felt he would drown; he could hardly breathe as the misery pressed in on him from all sides; an immense river of emotion dammed up only by Aidan's will—and that was failing; already the tears were streaming freely down his cheeks. The two boys stared silently at each other for a time, neither one daring to speak lest all of the emotions each felt pour out at once.

"What will you do?" Ciarán asked at length, looking up at Aidan with uncertainty in his blue eyes.

Turn him in. Tell McGonagall. He's not to be trusted. He attacked a student. Took away his power, somehow. He could do the same to me.

But Aidan could not bring himself to do anything; though he knew McGonagall ought to be informed, though he knew that was the right and proper course of action, his heart balked at doing so, and for once, it had gained the upper hand. All he could do was shake his head mutely; overcome with grief, he had no words.

Ciarán wet his lips nervously. "Look, I realize this is difficult for you to understand," he began. "There's—there's a lot more..." He seemed to be struggling to find the words. "It's complicated," he finished at last, sighing heavily and wiping his face with the back of one hand.

"I have to turn you in," Aidan said, riding the wave of emotion that rose as he considered the possibility, the reality that he was never going to see Ciarán again. "They'll take you away."

Ciarán nodded. "You have to do the right thing. But…"

"But what?" Aidan shouted as the wave crested, abruptly turning from sorrow to anger. How dare Ciarán suggest another course of action, try to sway Aidan because of how he felt about Ciarán? "It's not like you've given me a lot of bloody choice! D'you think I want to?" His voice was rising as the tide came crashing down, threatening to turn him hysterical. "I love you!" The admission cost him dearly; it was all he could do to remain on his feet, staring intently into Ciarán's face and breathing heavily. He felt utterly spent.

Silence descended upon the room, broken only by the sound of one of the portraits stirring and snapping, "Do keep it down! Not all of us enjoy being privy to the soap opera that is your lives, you know!"

"Oh, I don't know, Hilgarde," said another of the portraits in a sardonic tone of voice. "I find it to be quite educational."

Ciarán glared up at the portraits for a moment before turning his attention back to Aidan. "Can we go somewhere private?" he asked softly. There was a great deal of tension in his face, as if he, too, had been suppressing powerful emotions, as if he actually cared.

If he really cared, he wouldn't have done it, wouldn't have made it impossible for us to be together.

Aidan brushed the thought aside, at once tired, too tired to care anymore. He slowly followed the older boy up to the empty dormitory.

"You should sit down," Ciarán said softly.

Aidan nodded absently, sinking down onto the nearest bed while Ciarán paced nervously back and forth in front of him, running one hand through his dark hair. Aidan chose a point on the stone wall and considered it without really seeing it. It was a great deal less painful than looking at Ciarán.

Finally, Ciarán sighed heavily and sat down next to him on the bed, taking one of Aidan's hands in his own. "There's more going on than I can tell you," he said urgently.

Aidan snorted without any real feeling, refusing to look at the older boy. "And that's supposed to explain everything, is it?"

"No," Ciarán replied reasonably. "It's not."

For some reason, the rational tone of voice, the way Ciarán acknowledged and validated Aidan's feelings and accepted Aidan's point of view, recognized he'd done something wrong, made Aidan angry all over again. "Stop giving me all the right answers!" he seethed, yanking his hand away from Ciarán and standing up. "Stop making it so difficult!" For me to hate you, he added silently. "You're the bad guy now, Ciarán! Start acting like it!"

The look of pain crossed Ciarán's face once more as the older boy looked up at Aidan. "Do I look like the bad guy, Aidan?" he murmured.

Aidan bit his lower lip, which had started trembling again. "No," he admitted in a small voice. The hot tears started flowing again; he dashed them away with one hand so that they would not interfere with his vision of the older boy. "You look like Ciarán."

"I am Ciarán," the older boy said firmly, standing up and putting his arms around the younger boy. Aidan did not resist, did not pull away, though his mind warned him that he should. His heart still had the upper hand.

"I'm so confused," Aidan wept, burying his face in Ciarán's shoulder and letting the tears come. "I don't know anything anymore!"

Ciarán held him tighter. "Whatever happens, I love you," he said softly. Aidan looked up into the older boy's eyes at this statement and saw only sincerity, only the truth. Whatever else Ciarán might be, whatever else he might have done or might still do, he was this person, this boy that he loved. Without knowing why, knowing only a sudden urgency, Aidan rose on his tiptoes and kissed the older boy, who responded in kind, running his hands lightly up and down Aidan's back.

"What're you doing?" Ciarán asked, puzzled, breaking off the kiss and staring at Aidan quizzically.

"I don't know," Aidan replied in the barest of whispers. "I just—I need...before you go..." He trailed off; his heart was pounding so hard it could have knocked him over, it could have shaken the castle walls; he needed something, something that Ciarán could give him, and Ciarán was more than willing. The older boy nodded slowly and gently pressed him back onto the bed before climbing over him, holding himself up with one arm while his free hand went exploring. They kissed again, harder this time, each letting the intensity of the moment—and their freshly-bruised emotions, which desired to express something that mere words could not—overtake them.

Aidan gasped and bit down on Ciarán's lower lip as Ciarán's hand found its way under his shirt to flutter lightly over his bare skin. The older boy gazed down at him, a question and a hunger in his blue eyes, and Aidan nodded once, surrendering himself to the moment as Ciarán pulled the younger boy's shirt up as far as it would go and began planting kisses here and there on his exposed skin, igniting a fire wherever he made contact.

"Gah!" he hissed as the older boy's lips brushed across his nipples; first one, then the other, pausing briefly to swirl his tongue around each before tweaking them gently with his teeth. Breathing heavily, Ciarán paused to shrug off his shirt, and Aidan took the opportunity to rise from the bed and explore the older boy's body in turn, kissing his way down Ciarán's neck, his chest, his hands playing lightly over the older boy's back while his mouth worked its way down the front of Ciarán's body, following the light trail of dark hair that ran from the older boy's chest to his belly button, where it was interrupted for a brief moment before it continued, disappearing into his jeans. Aidan's hands groped through the fabric until they found what he sought; Ciarán breathed in sharply and arched his back, pressing in closer to the younger boy and moving to undo the button that kept him in check, but Aidan brushed his hands aside, carefully undoing the button on his own and sliding the jeans down over Ciarán's waist as the older boy stretched himself up to aid the process.

Beneath Ciarán's jeans was a worn pair of plaid boxers whose fabric was currently under a great deal of strain. Aidan helped the older boy to shuck his pants entirely before turning his attention once more to Ciarán's more pressing concern, which felt warm and solid through the thin fabric of the older boy's underwear. Ciarán was breathing heavily now, staring at Aidan with a mixture of helplessness and desire, and Aidan smiled slightly, caught up in the moment, glad to have an excuse to forget everything that had occurred and focus on this one person, this one thing that he could do. Before reality came crashing back in on them both, he could know Ciarán, imprint him on his memory in a way that was far more lasting than mere words and touch, and he could make the older boy happy in the process. He needed it, he wanted it, he desired it like he had desired nothing else in all of his life.

Gently, Aidan pressed Ciarán back onto the bed, kissing him once more on the mouth even as the older boy half-raised himself off the bed in a silent plea for release. Ignoring it for the moment, Aidan once more began planting kisses along the whole length of Ciarán's body while his hands ran every which way over the older boy's bare skin, sometimes coming tantalizingly close but sliding away at the very last second. Ciarán began to pant and moan softly as Aidan worked his way down; the older boy's desire growing more insistent, more desperate. Just as it seemed as though Aidan would finally relieve Ciarán of his tension, just as his mouth brushed against the elastic waistband of the Ciarán's shorts, Aidan stopped, grinning cheekily at the older boy, who opened one eye and smiled despite his condition.

"Tease," he whispered hoarsely.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Aidan responded playfully, taking hold of Ciarán's aching member through the fabric of his boxers.

Ciarán gasped and clenched his fists. "Ye—yes, you do," he panted. "Where—where did you learn--?"

"Ssh," Aidan instructed, not wanting to remember anything but here and now. Gently, he tugged at the elastic waistband of the older boy's shorts, slowly, deliberately edging them downward even as a plaintive moan escaped Ciarán's lips and he thrust upward, his tension by now nearly unbearable.

"Please," the older boy implored.

Aidan relented and quickly stripped Ciarán of his boxers, setting free the object of the younger boy's focus, which was pulsing in time to the older boy's elevated heartbeat and had already begun to leak a small amount of fluid in anticipation of what was coming. Gently, Aidan wrapped one hand around the older boy's flesh, eliciting a contented sigh from Ciarán. Aidan marveled at the way the heat radiated from it, at the way it felt so natural in his hands, even though he had never, ever touched another person like this in all his life and had never wanted to until now. But he knew what to do. Slowly, he worked his hand back and forth over its length, his own heart racing as Ciarán moaned softly in time to the rhythm he had established, his face contorted in a strange mixture of agony and ecstasy, eyes closed, fists alternately opening and closing.

It did not take long for Aidan to notice that Ciarán was nearing his climax, such was the inexpressible torment that the younger boy had put him through, and it was a thought along those lines that caused Aidan to pause, considering the older boy thoughtfully for a fraction of a moment, emblazoning the look of torment and near-release on Ciarán's face before leaning forward and planting a single tender kiss on the tip of the older boy's swollen member, which proved to be too much for Ciarán to handle.

"Oh, God, Aidan, I'm going to—!" Ciarán breathed, but his words were cut off by a loud, sustained cry as he reached the breaking point, and it sounded as though the cry was torn from his very essence; it shook the older boy's body. It was at once and the same time a plaintive lament full of sorrow and an exultant shout that reminded Aidan strongly of the note at the end of the phoenix song in his dream; as the cry tore from his lips, all of Ciarán's pent-up tension erupted, not once, but several times, leaving the older boy shuddering and gasping for breath, his dazed expression accentuated by a thin sheen of perspiration. Aidan gently let go of Ciarán and watched the older boy as he lay with his eyes closed, breathing heavily and attempting to recover from the exertion.

It was several minutes before the older boy regained the use of his voice. Aidan took the time to clean up a little bit before curling up next to Ciarán, content to watch the older boy doze and memorize his every feature. Reality began to intrude on his consciousness, but with less urgency than before. Whatever Aidan had so desperately needed from Ciarán, he had gotten it, even though he did not know what it was. It was enough to have this moment. His rational mind argued against the feeling of contentment that had descended upon him, but Aidan ignored it, though it even went so far as to remind him that Ciarán owed him the same kind of attention he had just received.

There'll be time enough for that, he thought sleepily, though he knew somewhere in the back of his mind that there was no more time at all. Without realizing it, without meaning to, Aidan slipped over the threshold between dreams and the waking world.

Do you understand?

It was the phoenix, its white-hot plumage shining brightly against the dark backdrop of his sleep and regarding him mournfully. Even in his dream the light was painful to look at; it was so pure, so real that everything else, including Aidan himself, felt like a lie masquerading as reality next to it.

I understand, Aidan replied, though he was not certain until that very moment that he did. But comprehension was coming to him rapidly, fueled by a calm certainty, an acceptance of reality that Aidan had not had before. Ciarán is the one who brings the Third Darkness.

He is.

It has something to do with taking away people's powers.

It does.

I'll have to stop him. It was a simple statement but it carried with it a weight of sadness that, although distant in this time and place, could still be felt.

It must be done. The phoenix sounded sorrowful.

From somewhere outside of the dream, someone whispered softly, "I'm sorry, Aidan," and brushed his lips lightly with their own.

He's leaving. Aidan's mind was working fast. He thought he could wake up, stop the older boy from going, get McGonagall involved somehow, and the whole thing would be over. But even as he reached out toward his conscious mind and the waking world, he hesitated.

Tell me how I can stop him without hurting him. Aidan turned to where the phoenix had been, but only in time to see it fade into the darkness of his dreams. He was abandoned here even as he was abandoned in the waking world, and it hurt, it was a pain so terrible that he thought he could not withstand it, but he did, he held out, because it was preferable to waking up in the empty bed, as he knew he must.

It was his body that overcame this desire; thinking the pain was a sign of imminent danger, it awoke him at once. His every muscle ached, but none more so than his heart as he stared at the vacant spot next to him, knowing that when next he saw Ciarán, it would be as his enemy.