Author's Note: How was everyone's Christmas? Mine was great! And if you celebrate something other than Christmas, I hope you had a good Whatever-You-Celebrate. I'm personally quite keen on Festivus. Oh, and Happy Boxing Day, as it's the 26th.

One again, if you have any comments/questions/etc., review! Or you can e-mail me or contact me through my livejournal. All of my stuff in in my profile.

Dumbledore (Part I – The Phoenix)

Chapter IV – Tea With the Ollivanders

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This time, escaping the house the next day proved easier than Percival had anticipated. This was, of course, owing to the fact that it was Christmas Eve, and everyone was busy doing all manner of Christmas Eve things. Percival, confidence heightened by the previous day's successful foray into Diagon Alley, took his mother aside and explained that he was going to visit his friend from Eton again.

"On Christmas Eve?" she asked uncertainly. "You had all December to visit him, why must you go two days in a row?"

"I didn't have all December," Percival replied. "He's only here for Christmas, then he's going back to Scotland."

"Scotland!" his mother exclaimed.

"Yes," said Percival. "And I promised that I would come back and visit today. He only has his little sister and his old grandfather for company, it's terribly sad..."

"And what of his parents?" His mother wondered.

"Dead," Percival said, edging his voice with sadness. "Tragic, really."

"How did they die?"

"Mother!" he exclaimed. "I've hardly asked!"

By the end of this exchange, Mrs Dumbledore was confused enough to let her son go. Percival left the house humming a little tune, and followed the route from the day before to Diagon Alley. This time when he entered the Leaky Cauldron, he walked straight past the grumpy barman and out into the courtyard by himself.

There was the brick wall. He took his new wand out of his pocket, and took a deep breath. "Three up... two across..." he murmured to himself, tapping the appropriate brick with his wand and praying that it would work. The bricks began sliding and knocking together, opening up to form the archway into Diagon Alley. Percival exhaled, grinned, and stuck his wand back in his pocket.

I was snowing as he made his way toward Ollivanders. All of the shops were decorated for the holiday. Outside a shop selling robes, a huge Christmas tree was singing carols at passers-by. For some reason Percival thought of Mr Harley, his old tutor, and what his reaction would be if he were faced with a singing Christmas tree. He laughed.

When he stepped into Ollivanders, he sneezed, and his skin prickled, just as the day before. "Customer!" Alistair shouted from above, and then descended the stairs. He came around a shelf and said, "Oh, it's you. You managed to get away from your mother did you?"

"Yes," said Percival, brushing snow off the top of his head.

"Well, come on upstairs. My sister and Grandpa will be happy to see you. They haven't stopped talking about you."

Percival was quite taken aback, but followed Alistair into the back of the shop, up a rickety old staircase, and then into a large, grand apartment. The first thing he noticed was the phoenix, asleep on a perch near the window. He instantly relaxed. For some reason, the very presence of the bird was comforting.

When he looked around, he saw that they were in some kind of parlour, with rich, polished furniture, ornate rugs and wall hangings, and fine oak panelling. There were several doors which Percival assumed must lead to other rooms in the apartment. He could not comprehend it – the parlour itself looked bigger than the entire shop downstairs. "How..." he started.

"Magic," Alistair explained. "Grandpa!" he called. "Cathy, we have a guest!"

Percival was suddenly struck with just how much about magic he did not know. He felt very stupid and backward as Ollivander and Catherine entered the room. They greeted him cheerfully, and he smiled in return, but felt a bit empty. He had studied things all his life, but he had never studied this.

Catherine was balancing a large tray of tea and biscuits. She set it down on a little table, and everyone took a seat on a sofa or a chair. "I wish you'd let me use magic," Catherine said to her grandfather, taking a biscuit. "That tray is heavy, you know."

"No magic outside of school. I could be charged for that," Ollivander said firmly. Then he fixed his eyes on Percival. "You haven't done anything with that wand, have you?"

"Oh, no, nothing," Percival assured him. "Nothing at all, well, except using it to get into Diagon Alley."

"Ahh, well, good, good," Ollivander smiled. "You see, you're not allowed to do any magic out of school till you come of age. Ministry rules."

"Till I come of age?" Percival cried. "What, I can't do any magic at all till I'm twenty one?"

"Twenty one?" Ollivander replied, breaking his biscuit in half. "Merlin, no! Wizards come of age at seventeen. You can't be much younger than seventeen anyway. Are you?"

"I am sixteen," Percival answered, feeling a bit relieved. "But how am I to learn magic? I want to, of course. I can't just... find out about all of this and then go back to living like a, a... what do you call it?"

"Muggle," Catherine offered.

"That's right," Percival finished, "like a Muggle. I want to learn magic."

"Find yourself a good tutor," Alistair suggested. "Lots of wizards and witches never go to Hogwarts, they get taught privately by a tutor instead."

Percival was not so sure about this idea. The barman at the Leaky Cauldron had thought he was taught by a tutor, and seemed to have no great opinion of it. However, Percival reasoned, the barman at the Leaky Cauldron was probably not someone whose opinion was worth much. But then he remembered Mr Harley, and frowned. "I don't know," he said. "How would I go about finding a tutor? And how would I hide it from my parents?"

"They're bound to find out eventually," Alistair pointed out. "Your mother already knows, if she was the one hiding the letter from you. Unless, of course, she still doesn't believe it."

"Hmmm," said Percival thoughtfully, mulling it over in his head as he chewed on his biscuit. "Perhaps I could just teach myself."

Ollivander looked at him doubtfully. "I wouldn't recommend it," he said. "Not without a good, solid base of proper education first. No, no... it could be disastrous."

"There is so much I don't know," Percival admitted, feeling rather dejected. "I don't know the first thing about... anything! I don't even know what wands are used for."

"Casting spells," Catherine said simply, selecting another biscuit.

"And if you've got an itch behind your ear," Alistair added, "They're perfect – "

"Never do that!" Ollivander exclaimed, looking horrified. "You haven't been using your wand to scratch behind your ear, have you, boy?"

"Err," said Alistair, looking sheepish.

"When I was in fifth year," Ollivander continued, a warning tone in his voice, "a boy in Hufflepuff blew his ear right off by doing that."

Alistair snorted. "Figures. Hufflepuff."

"It's no laughing matter," his grandfather said sternly. "He was in the hospital wing for a week, and he could never hear properly again."

"What is Hufflepuff?" asked Percival. He was trying to remember to question them about anything they said that was unfamiliar.

Alistair opened his mouth to reply, but Catherine cut him off. "Oh, please let me explain!" she begged. "You two know more than I do, you can explain everything else to him, at least let me explain this!"

"Well if it's that important to you," Alistair shrugged, blowing some steam off the top of his tea cup.

Catherine drew herself up a little. "Hufflepuff is a house at Hogwarts," she began. "There are four houses – Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, Slytherin, and Gryffindor – and all Hogwarts students are sorted into one of them when they first enter school."

"And what's the difference between them?" Percival inquired. "Is there any?"

"Oh, yes," said Catherine enthusiastically. "A great deal of difference. They are all named after the four founders of the school, and the students in each of the houses all have certain characteristics that each of the founders thought highly of, like... well... Hufflepuffs, they're loyal and hardworking, Gryffindors are brave, Ravenclaws are clever, and Slytherins are ambitious."

"And evil," Percival put in.

"Not evil," his grandfather countered firmly, but his tone was kind. Alistair merely shrugged and stared into his teacup. Percival got the distinct impression that this was, for some reason, an argument they had had many times before.

"What house are you in?" Percival asked.

"Gryffindor," Catherine replied, but she was frowning slightly now. "Both of us."

By the time their tea was either finished or cold, Percival knew a great deal more about the wizarding world, but still felt rather lost. He did not know how he would ever learn everything he needed to know. He had a depressing feeling that he would never truly be a part of this world.

It was decided amongst Ollivander and his grandchildren that reading books on the subject would be a good place for Percival to start. Percival was more than happy to place his trust in books, his old companions, and so he headed out into Diagon Alley with Alistair and Catherine to make some purchases.

They hadn't much time as it was Christmas Eve and all the shops were either not open at all, or closing early, but they did manage to find a few books. Percival for the most part had no idea what to look for, and bought whatever Alistair and Catherine told him to.

After the shopkeeper had finally turned them out because he had to close, Percival said goodbye to Catherine and Alistair, promising to visit them again before the holidays were over, and then began the trek back to his aunt's house as the sky was darkening. Snow was swirling thickly in the air now, and the books were heavy, but Percival was more concerned with how he was going to conceal them from his family once he was inside.

Luckily for him, everyone in the house was busier than ever, and he managed to get the books up to his room completely unnoticed. He sat on his bed for a while, contemplating everything, until the snow that had fallen on his hair started melting around his ears and the streetlamp was lit outside. He tucked the books carefully away in his desk, covering them with an encyclopaedia, a copy of The Tempest, and a Bible. Then he went downstairs.

Christmas Eve supper was a noisy affair. The table consisted of Mr and Mrs Dumbledore, Rosamund, Terrence, Percival, Maria, Mr and Mrs Clarkend, Louisa, Mr Stephenson and his brother (who was called Edgar), Jane, and Rachel – thirteen people altogether.

"That's unlucky," Percival remarked.

"Oh Percival, don't be such a bore!" Maria exclaimed. "Percival is full of silly superstitions," she informed Edgar Stephenson, who she was seated next to. "It's from reading so many books."

"I beg your pardon," Percival replied, rather affronted. "As you've never picked up a book, Maria, I would not think you qualified to judge what they do to people."

"Well," she said in a huff, "I know what they've done to you – "

"Maria!" Mrs Dumbledore said sharply, and the girl fell silent. Percival was not sure whether his mother had silenced her because of her impoliteness in front of company, or because she equated being superstitious with being a wizard. In any case, he was glad that Maria had stopped talking to him.

Percival did not enjoy his evening. Everything seemed lopsided. Rosamund and Louisa, who used to always be at odds, were getting along marvellously now that Louisa was engaged. As for the rest of the young ladies at the table, it was clear that they were all competing for the attentions of Edgar Stephenson, who, unlike his brother, was still quite single. As Maria and Rachel were too young to consider marriage, Rosamund and Jane were the two who were engaging him most in conversation, or relating a little joke, or asking him some question about his family or his work. He did seem particularly taken with Rosamund, though, to the delight of Mrs Dumbledore.

Percival liked Edgar Stephenson well enough, and was sure that he was a very good sort of man, but by the end of the night he never wanted to hear him spoken of again. More than once, he glanced up at the ceiling, picturing his new books waiting upstairs, concealed beneath Shakespeare and the New Testament.

After what seemed like an age, the Stephenson brothers finally left, and the rest of the family went to bed. Percival quietly took his new books from the desk drawer and admired them in what feeble light the candle on his bedside table cast. Which would he open first? Choosing a book was like choosing a pudding; they all looked delicious.

In the end, he chose what seemed like the most promising volume to start with: a book called 'A Muggleborn's Guide to Magic' by Matthew Reid. He remembered this book from Diagon Alley – the shopkeeper had informed them that it was the last one they had in stock. Someone had been buying them up. This seemed rather odd to Percival, as he had got the impression that Muggleborns actually finding out about their magical ability were something of a rarity at present. Still, he supposed that it was more than likely he was mistaken.

Percival stayed awake all night reading. By the time the sun was rising, he was well acquainted with the basics of the wizarding world. He had never enjoyed a book so much, and he kept going over parts he had already read. There was very little Percival liked more than being well-informed.

The result of this overnight literary romp through the wizarding world was that Percival was exhausted for the rest of the day. He fell asleep on the sofa in the drawing room after dinner and only woke up when people started arriving for supper.

He was so well rested from sleeping all day that he could not sleep at all that night. He lay awake, reading more from 'A Muggleborn's Guide to Magic'. Some time after two o'clock in the morning, he heard a crash from the corridor and the sound of something breaking. He went out to investigate, and found Terrence, standing in the midst of a broken flower pot, swearing and laughing.

"Shut up!" Percival hissed at him. "You'll wake everyone up. Are you drunk?"

"'Course not," Terrence replied, swaying a little. "Go back to sleep, you're boring."

"Oh, that's logical," Percival said sarcastically. "Why don't you go back to sleep? What are you doing crashing around the house at this hour, breaking flower pots and saying inane things?"

Terrence merely waved his hand in an exaggerated motion, and stumbled off down the corridor. Percival followed him. They came to Terrence's room, and when he opened the door, Percival heard someone distinctly female greet him.

"Have you got a girl in there?" he stared at his brother.

"Two!" Terrence grinned, and then swayed against the doorframe. "Whoooops." Then, turning to Percival, he said, "Want one?"

"What?" said Percival, feeling his face go quite hot. "No, good God, no, I don't want a girl! What do you think you're doing, getting drunk and bringing prostitutes or whatever they are into our aunt and uncle's house?"

"I'm not drunk," Terrence shot back, straining his eyes to focus on Percival. He frowned at him. "I'm just trying to be nice, you know."

"You're disgusting," Percival said firmly. Terrence laughed, which only served to provoke him. "I don't care what you do at university, but when you're here, with your family, at Christmas – "

"Who are you, my mother?" Terrence returned. "Just shut up, shut up. If you don't want any – anyone – if you don't – just go back to bed!" he finished angrily. Then he went inside his room and slammed his door shut.

Percival, praying that no one else had woken up, but half wishing that someone would discover the girl (or two, if Terrence was to be believed, which he probably was not) in his room, went back to his own room and got into bed, but could not sleep. He was too angry to sleep, and too angry to read. He hated his family, all of them. He hated Terrence with his alcohol and his women, he hated Rosamund and Jane and their obsession with finding husbands, he hated Maria and Rachel with their gossip and their stupidity. He hated his father, and his aunt, and his uncle – they were all dim-witted. But most of all, he hated his mother, for if it had not been for her, he would be where he was meant to be, and not an outcast, someone wavering uncertainly between two worlds, neither of which he fit into properly.

The next day, Boxing Day, seemed to go by in a lull. Percival was still furious, but the sluggish atmosphere of the house dulled his anger and left him feeling simply depressed.

It was not until the twenty seventh that everything took a turn for the absurd.