Chapter 2. some fly high, some fall low

Diagon alley, June 13th 2023

"I am so going to crush that Skeeter bug!" – Marcus seethed, following Emily through the Leaky cauldron. Everyone, even the bartender, were staring at the yesterday's Daily prophet, or exactly, at a picture of the golden bird. Some patrons, probably werewolves taking a day off after the full moon, were reading the passage about the talons of a royal phoenix, again and again, fear obvious in their eyes. Others kept eyeing the golden ploomage, their thoughts about potions as clear as a day. Only one person sat, blank-faced, seemingly staring through the bar window into nothing in particular. After spotting the two familiar, now equally blank faces, he stood with a sigh. "oh hello, mr Longhurst, ms Perks. Please follow me, this bar is as suitable for a serious conversation as a ripped-up butterfly net is for catching chizpurfles." "good afternoon mr Scamander, thank you for meeting us in such a short notice. Yes, it really isn't a place to discuss this. Please call me Marcus." – the boy returned the greeting. "and my name is Emily, it's just a year since we were granted freedom by Hogwarts after all", - Emily tried to brighten the mood. "oh yes, a year and you are all over the Prophet, ruffling feathers throughout the isles. Please call me Rolf." – the magizoologist chuckled, leading the pair out and into Diagon alley. Neither of them noticed a figure disappearing under a disillusionment charm, silently following the trio.

"Explain yourself, Rolf, and no jokes please!" – the young animagus decided to start their conversation without beating around the bush. "why uncover so much information that, if I'm unlucky, could result in my death or worse, uncurable mental illness?" the temperature in the room of an off-road café dropped by several degrees. Rolf was taken aback by such an outburst, but quickly composed himself. "hold your hippogriffs, young man. That vile Skeeter woman tricked me into telling everything you read. When I was summoned to identify your form, I was expecting absolutely anything but this", - he pointed at Marcus, making a flying gesture. "when you transformed, I fainted on the spot, then after waking up, exited and entered the room for several times, just to reassure myself that its true. Then somehow that bug with her green quill managed to extract the interview without me realizing what's going on." "it sounds like the only thing Skeeter is good at", - Emily snorted. "but we aren't cooped up here to complain about her, are we? Please, tell us everything, in as much detail as you can." The next hour of questions and explanations left the young pair in thought for weeks on end. It seemed that for real, magic decided to play a trick on the new animagus, for the conditions of his transformation had been interesting at least and suspicious at most. Royal phoenixes, as Rolf told them, are the rarest of their genus, hatching only once a thousand years. If it wasn't enough, the egg has to be laid by the water, preferably at the seashore, on a clifftop. At first, it has to be heated by the sun, then cooled off by wind, then sprayed by the water, and finally, seconds before hatching, struck by lightning. This way, the bird gains the control over all the elements: earth, water, fire, air and lightning. also, golden ploomage with some black feathers, a fiery red beak, silver talons and glittering blue eyes represent said elements. Not only that, but the gold-colored feathers are indeed almost purely gold, the same as the horn of an adult unicorn. To add, the silver talons are not only a perfect weapon against werewolves, but also a healing tool. "if a tic, a leech, or any other bug tries to feed on your blood, just transform – the parasites will rather leave you alone than be confronted by that shiny metal", - the magizoologist tried to lighten the atmosphere again. But neither Marcus nor Emily were in the mood for jokes. "just tell us about that oclumency shields already, please", - they both pleaded. "ok ok, no need to be so gloomy. From your reactions at the Leaky, I could assume you read the article, didn't you? So, everything I told Rita is true. Congratulations young man, you just gained the strongest oclumency shields in the world. Legilimency, obliviations, veritaserum, or any traditional way to affect one's mind wont work on you at all. The only way you could lose your protections is in your own hands. If you willingly, no matter knowingly or not, drink someone other's memory dissolved in distilled water, your shields will shatter. Before you start bombarding me with questions, I really don't know what other symptoms you might show. It can be absolutely anything, from pain to feaver to passing out, and everything in between. Be careful, and you will enjoy your new abilities, that I promiss." The pair only listened, neither asking questions. Every bit of information Rolf presented was more unbelievable than the other, but with every detail, things started to make sense. Marcus' transformation seemed like a phoenix hatching: he was standing on a clifftop by the sea, at first heated by the sun, then nearly swept off by the wind, sprayed in seawater, and finally… no, it couldn't be. He had to think it somewhere else. Hard. Preferably with Emily by his side. Deciding to wait no more, for the conversation seemed to go nowhere further, both he and Emily thanked Rolf, the boy called for Alexa, and elf popped himself and the girl to the Longhurst keep. The evening seemed to be very long, full of thoughts and unanswered questions.

In the café the three people had just left, a short but muscular man dropped his disillusionment charm. He had heard everything, and was beginning to formulate a plan. Plan to get on one Adam Greenbush's good side. "well well, will see what your little goldbird knows about memories. Then, maybe you will notice my flying skills, oh my so annoying teacher", - he laughed to himself. "Longhurst, beware!" he tossed some floo powder into the fireplace, and vanished after shouting: "Nocturn alley!"

National synchronized flying arena, Devon, July 12th 2023

"tworl! Faster! I say tworl!" – those and similar shouts shook the roof of the newly opened synchronized flying indoor arena. Marcus Longhurst and Emily Perks were now training at this new sport, evolved just a few years before. Their coach, adam Greenbush from the USA, a retired quodpot referee, was more of an army general than a flying instructor. Every morning, the young fliers were expected to start their warm-up at eight sharp, then endure a two-hour practice session, which could sometimes rival the ones performed by the world class athletes. Because mr Greenbush had a plan, a very ambitious plan. No matter what, his trainees will participate in the annual synchronized flying world championship, which just so happened to take place in Britain on the 21st of September. Til then, the team of two had to be brought up to shape, far from their previous pathetic attempts at flying.

While the trainees twirled, swooped and rolled, their coach sat in the spectator stands, deep in thought and taking notes. Every now and then, he would lift his head, shout something or another, and go back to his frantic scribbling. Finally, just before the two-hour session ended, he had an idea. "get down this instant!" – his voice left no room for argument. When the team landed, his face twisted into a grin that promised suffering for anyone who dared oppose. "listen, cause I'm telling this only once. The championship is approaching, and I have devised a plan how to make your pathetic broomstick ballei worth it. You" – he pointed at now cowering Marcus, "will act as a stunt flier who somehow got cursed. And you", - jabbing his finger at blushing Emily, "will take a role of what you really are, a flying instructor. So, Longhurst gets cursed one day, training near the lake or see, will decide on that later. He falls, you catch him. You exchange brooms, but he falls again. Whatever broomstick he tries, doesn't work. At the end you decide to find a reason of his curse, and embark on an epic journey." The last words carried more sarcasm than both athletes had heard in their life. "I haven't yet decided what the outcome will be, but it's none of your business." Lowering his voice he added: "also, beware of one miscreent called Brian Bravos. He will probably try to discourage you from flying, but believe me, he has no place here, no matter how hard he wants it. Now rise and resume your exercise!"

Relieved to have avoided most of Adam too many quods exploded on my head Greenbush's favorite scathing comments, the athletes complied. Unfortunately, the living quod on the ground burst in shouts again, seeing how Marcus tried to recreate his offered scenario. "is this what you call being cursed?! A three-year-old on a toy broom could do better! Just act as if you lost control, or do you want a real hurling hex?" he reached for his wand but thought better of it. Then, several things happened at once. Somewhere at the edge of the arena, a strange flutelike instrument blown by an invisible someone emitted three long, low notes. "oh no! it's Weasleys' wicked windhorn!" – both fliers had the same feeling of the inevitable. The expected small hurricane hit with full force, nearly knocking the athletes off their brooms. And if it wasn't enough, Marcus' trusty Firebolt extreme started acting up. "are you barking mad?" – Emily screamed in fear, glaring daggers at the instructor and trying to position herself as close to her almost falling boyfriend as possible. "wasn't me!" – mr Greenbush replied, deciding to ignore the outburst. Wand in hand, eyes darting for even the slightest sign of the culprit, he tried in vane to stop the chaos. "finite! Meteolojinx recanto! Immobulus! Holy bucket, what's this magic?" none of his spells worked; the wind picked up speed as if mocking everyone, and not so trusty broomstick gave way. The boy, too shocked to regain his balance, plummeted from fifty metres to the ground. Fortunately, his animagus ability kicked in, and he landed gracefully as a bird.

"holy smokes! the royal phoenix?" – the steely instructor regained his senses first. The wind had now receided, but neither of the athletes wanted to continue. Luckily, mr Greenbush was too stunned to give instructions too; firstly, he needed, oh how badly, to reascert his plan, better over a butterbeer or something stronger. Secondly, his suspicions about a certain someone trying to get on his good side by sabotaging his team were confirmed. "dismissed, you two, come tomorrow!" – he managed to croke, and the pair, now both human again, left hurridly. Regaining his composia, the coach descended into the field. "hominum revelio", - he incanted, pointing at the far edge of the arena. A short figure emerged from the disillusionment charm. "oh hello! Adam Greenbush, the famous quodpot know-it-all, the perfect Horned serpent at school, long time no see!" – the now revealed man spoke. "you!", - the instructor snarled, irate again. "Brian Bravos, the Ilvermorny dropout, rule breaker, quod destroyer, and the reason for my retirement! What business do you have here now, trying to kill my prominent trainees, you conehead!" "I just… I have nowhere to go…" – babbled Brian, too afraid to look at the basilisk-like eyes of his former instructor. "so you had this clever idea to kill mr Longhurst and take his place in the competition? In your place, after today's attempts, I would rather pack my stuff and voluntarily check in to this lovely hotel at the North sea. It's named Azkaban, if you would like to check for more info." The man's face lost what little color it had. Clenching his fists both from fear of the words now registering in his mind, and fury for another failed plan to eliminate his rival, Brian Bravo disaperated straight from the arena. He needed more suttle approach to this, as suttle as giving that gold-colored chicken a memory, dissolved in distilled water.

That night, before falling asleep, two men at the opposite ends of London mumbled the same phrase: "some fly high, but some fall low". Once in their lifetime, both the renouned former quodpot referee in his apartment and a shivering mess at his shack thought the same thing, just for different people.