Burning Flames of the Phoenix
Chaos. That’s what greeted Hadrian the moment he re-entered his current lodging.
People were scurrying about, screaming across whole rooms or shoving past him with no regards, whatsoever.
And then, suddenly, it was still. Completely still and quiet and just like time had slowed down and finally, stopped.
Every eye was turned upon him.
Hadrian opened his mouth, closed it again and finally asked, “Is something the matter?”
Silence. And staring.
“Harry James Potter!” Exploded Molly Weasley suddenly. He flinched, “Where. Have. You. Been?!”
“At the trial?” He asked uncertainly. Shouldn’t she know this?
“Albus was here an hour ago to inform us of his success in getting the Minister to drop all charges!” Informed him the woman, “So I ask again: where have youbeen?!”
So, okay, Hadrian was just going to ignore what Mrs Weasley said about Dumbledore being the one to achieve this and instead focus on the repeated question.
However, before he could as much as open his mouth to appease the red sister-banshee of a certain black one — as he was sure they must be related —, he was cut off by said woman.
“We were worried sick! Arthur said he wanted to pick you up after he was done and you were simply gone. Gone. Can you even image what we thought had happened? Death Eaters could have —“
“Mum, I think that’s enough now.” Thank you, George.
“Yeah, I don’t think he did it deliberately. Aren’t I right, Harrykins?” Absolutely, Fred, absolutely.
Mrs Weasley’s face reached another shade of red when Hadrian finally decided to end this torture.
After all, more than one Order member had their hands pressed on their ears. Hard.
“I’m sorry, Mrs Weasley. I was not aware that you were so distressed. I was just… making a quick detour to Diagon Alley, nothing dangerous, I promise.”
And even though it should have helped, it did not seem to do much. If anything, the rapid loss of color on her face worried him even more.
Had he done something wrong?
“You have gone to Diagon Alley? Alone?!” She gasped, “Without telling us! Or anyone! What if you had been kidnapped? Or killed? Harry James Potter, what do you think Dumbledore would say to that?”
Well, probably something along the lines of him not honouring his parents’ sacrifice for him and being a child doing reckless things; all the while also comparing him to his dead father and telling him how he also always broke the rules.
Smiling angelically, he prayed for patience and opened his eyes wide.
“Really, Mrs Weasley, I was very careful. And I only went into Gringotts —“ and the Post Office, and the Apothecary, and — “and Gringotts is safe. The safest place there is. Everything was fine.”
He reassured not only the woman, but also every Order member and person in the room. But honestly, they were much too invested in his life.
Thankfully, it was not the red-banshee that spoke next, but the poor bloke that had to live with her screaming every day of his life. “I know you were worried, Molly-Wobbles, we all were.” He touched her arm lovingly, “but nothing happened. So there is no need to alarm the boy now. He obviously wasn’t aware of the dangers and it was reckless of him to do this, but we cannot change it now.”
Mrs Weasley took a few deep breaths before nodding affirmatively. Hermione had meanwhile taken this as a sign that all was settled now and once more latched herself firmly onto Hadrian.
All the boy could do was resign himself to it. He wound his arms around her as well and made sure to keep his breathing shallow. He did not want to breath in hair, thank you very much.
“Oh Harry, I’m so glad you are okay. I mean, even though Dumbledore was there I couldn’t be sure if a Death Eater hadn’t gotten to you after he left.” She drew back and looked at him accusingly, though at the same time managed to sound exasperated. “Don’t ever do something like this again.”
“I promise.” He ground out, rubbing his arm slightly where she hit him, “I’m sorry, ‘Mione.”
Despite all this, it still took at least five minutes of them to reprimand and congratulate him, of him falsely promising not to do something like this again and for Moody to ground out “Constante vigilance” when Hadrian said that he just hadn’t thought that Death Eaters would honestly kidnap him in broad daylight while the Dark Lord tried to lay low and not rise suspicion about his rebirth.
After that, Ron finally came to his rescue.
“C’mon mate, let’s get you out of these horrendous robes.” He joked, but the disgust was obvious on his grimacing face, “where’d you even get them? Did Kreacher mob you into them?”
Hadrian cracked a forced smile but didn’t answer. Luckily, the red-head didn’t expect one and so they just left the kitchen with still almost the full Order, behind; Hermione, Ginny and the twins followed after them.
Once they entered the beautiful, restored to its former glory, sitting room, everyone got comfortable. Hadrian, however, still stood by the door.
“I’m just gonna change, because this clothes are…” actuallyquite comfortable. But he couldn’t say that, so he just trailed off and vanished from the room, leaving behind nodding and agreeing teenagers to something they thought he had meant.
Walking down the hall, a hand shot out of a room by his left and grabbed him; grabbed him hard and unexpected and dragged him into the dark and dank room.
There were no windows to light the room, no torches lit, no way to see.
The bang of the door shutting was amplified by Hadrian’s magic. His poised and bundled magic pooled by the strong grip and forcefully exploded outwards.
There was no spell spoken. No incantation or wand movement. There was just magic.
Pure and willing and ready and full of intent.
His assailant stumbled backwards from the force of it. From the suddenness, from the unexpectedness.
A loud metallic CLACK sounded, followed by a softer, almost muffled tap of a foot treading on the hard wooden floor.
Hadrian’s magic curled back around him, tight and secure, ready to defend, to protect, to lash out.
His eyes meanwhile tried to see, to discern something, anything, in the total darkness of the windowless room. To no avail.
He could see nothing. Barely even his own hands, never mind his feet.
CLACK tap CLACK tap CLACK —
“What do you want, Moody?”
His voice echoed through the room with its impenetrable obscurity, over and over again, repelling from every wall and coming back to him.
Silence answered him.
Then CLACK tap CLACK tap, rustling and — smooth, fine wood landed right in Hadrian’s hand. A small surge of magic followed. Probing, testing, —
Another wand joined the first one.
This time, it was Hadrian who tested them, tested the core and probed its magic.
He lit the wand-tips.
Weak, flickering light filled the room, just enough to illuminate the scowling ex-Auror with his gleaming, wickedly sharp dagger, pointing at his unprotected chest.
Moody growled, “Who are you?”
When Hadrian didn’t answer immediately the man took a threatening step forward, his prosthetic sounding jarringly.
Tap CLACK.
“I won’t ask again, imposter!”
Hadrian contemplated the man while standing completely still. He had absolutely no desire to be impaled by Moody after all.
Though, the man, while on Dumbledore’s side and being a trusted member of the Order of flaming chickens, didn’t trust easily, and never absolutely. Not even Albus Dumbledore.
He put himself first, always, and triple checked everything. He didn’t simply believe the word of one man without checking the facts for himself.
He wouldn’t simply run off to Dumbledore, would he?
Maybe. Hadrian didn’t know, wasn’t sure. But what he knew was that, even if Moody were to go to Dumbledore with his suspicions, nothing would change much.
Dumbledore, after all, was aware of the connection the Dark Lord and he shared. He even expected Riddle to be able to posses him and infiltrate his mind.
Still, having the risk of Moody going to Dumbledore and telling him of his assumptions and therefore having Dumbledore watch him even more than he’s already doing…
“I am Lily and James Potter’s son.” Hadrian finally said steadily. Moody scrutinised him, his magical eye for once not spinning wildly about but solely fixated on this very person.
“You are not lying,” he finally ground out, “but you are not the boy.”
This time, Hadrian couldn’t keep his huff inside, even if he wanted to.
“I may not act like you expected me to act, but that doesn’t mean that I’m not Harry Potter. Neither is it my fault.” He looked at Moody judgingly, “After all, I am not the one who built up a whole personality for someone they’ve never met, simply based on obvious fantasy stories where the protagonist has the same name.”
The man growled. “You cannot deceive me. I will be watching you, imposter.”
“Do that, “ Hadrian agreed jokingly, “now, please excuse me, my friends are waiting for me.” And gone he was. Moody’s wands flying through the air, making the man drop his daggers in order to catch them.
This boy, this stranger, Moody knew, was not the Harry Potter they’d expected. Though, he had grudging respect for him still. Not many talked to him like that — considering what he looked like, never mind while he was armed.
But this boy… Something was wrong.
xXxXxXx
Once he’d escaped from Moody’s claws, Hadrian quickly changed into his comfortable, new clothes before rejoining his friends in their celebration.
This afternoon chess pieces fell and cards exploded.
Jokes and laughter and conspiracy theories about the Order’s and Riddle’s dealings filled the air. Well, as long as the twins’ horrible piano play didn’t.
It was nice, for once not having to clean but simply enjoying the day and relaxing with his old friends.
And when it was eventually time to go to bed, Hadrian went willingly; dragging Ron with him while Hermione berated Fred and George and took Ginny.
Once in bed though, he didn’t sleep.
xXxXxXx
Interlude:
At the same time the children laughed and joked about without a care in the world, Albus Dumbledore stood in his tower in Hogwarts, looking out at the grounds and the forest, all bathed in the soft light of the moon.
Everywhere around him little knickknacks whirred and emitted puffs of smoke, former headmasters snored softly in their portraits and Fawkes sang a few quiet notes; like he had taken to do for a few weeks now.
The Phoenix must have noticed how strained Albus had been since Voldemort’s resurrection and tried to help him.
He was really thankful to have such a good pet, but at the moment even Fawkes’ wondrous melodies could not drive away his worries.
A wizened old hand ran through his beard in another attempt to sooth him — for naught. Try as he might, his awful weariness wouldn’t fade.
Albus Dumbledore was unsettled.
The trial today… it had not been what Albus had expected. Neither had it gone as he’d planed.
Harry, the poor boy, had been so scared. So small and vulnerable sitting all alone in front of the entire Wizengamot; their unforgiving, judging eyes resting upon his innocent frame.
And Albus? Albus hadn’t been able to do anything about it. Hadn’t been able to prevent him from sitting there in the first place.
Luckily, his presence was enough to have them see at least a bit reason and they decided to view the boy’s memories. And even if he hadn’t managed to convince them of this, then he had still good, old Arabella Figg with her testimony.
After all, they wouldn’t have been able to refuse to listen to her. Not with the Wizengamot’s Charter of Rights.
Though, with the way Amelia Bones had behaved, the Headmaster of Hogwarts couldn’t be sure.
Her behaviour throughout the whole trial had really been quite out of character for her. She’d been so… so agitated, Albus thought, so unpredictable and simply taking over the whole hearing and governing it with an iron fist.
It was not only not her job to do this, but neither was she qualified to do this.
The whole thing was especially worrying since she’d never done something quite like this before.
Something must have happened to her. Something to make her change this drastically. Something, to make her fall.
Hopefully she, or someone else, would realise what was happening before it was too late.
It was only thanks to Fudge — and some miracle — that he had seen the truth and decided to do the right thing in the end. Otherwise Albus was quite fearful to consider what might have happened to Harry.
Now if only the man would acknowledge the return of Voldemort.
Albus sighed. He could understand their fear, their reluctance and want for it to not be true. But… they had to face it. They had to stand up and face their fears before Voldemort turned them against Albus and the Light even more.
He did not care about his loss as the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot — he still had enough sway and people listening to him to not mourn it too much.
Of course, it would be a hurdle in the rest of the population, but he would deal with it when the time came.
The most important thing right now was to make them realise and accept the truth — no matter how terrifying or frightening. They had to see it. Lest Voldemort manages to grow as strong as before.
This time though, this time they were not as helpless as ten years ago.
This time, they had their prophesied Saviour in their hands.
Speaking of Harry… Albus sighed, his eyes not twinkling for once.
“Oh Fawkes,” he turned to the grooming bird, “what has the boy been thinking?”
His voice sounded as tired as he felt.
The boy, well… Albus knew that the connection between Voldemort and him would be tighter now, stronger; more dangerous. There was no question that Tom would find out about it and use it to his advantage but…
Albus had quite honestly not expected it to happen this quick. And he never would have thought that brave Harry would fall for it in such a short time.
He could already feel it, though; could already see the changes in the boy.
His Order had informed Albus about that first night, about what Harry had said while obviously under the influence of Voldemort.
It was definitely a smart move on Tom’s side; trying to get the boy to first stop participating in the war and then to capture and kill him when he was all alone. Albus wasn’t stupid, however. Neither was Harry.
And Tom, too lost in his madness, should have known that Harry would never abandon his friends. He would never let his parents’ murderer go without justice being served. And, Albus knew, Harry would fight for what was right; especially after all that Voldemort had done to him.
The only thing that worried Albus about all this was that Harry had not come to him. He had not told him about any more of his ‘dreams’ and apparently hadn’t gone to anyone else either.
Sadly, Albus could simply not go to the boy right now. Not with how Voldemort seemed to use their connection already; it was too dangerous. He just had to watch the boy from afar; that had to be enough for now.
And, if it got any worse, then he could have Severus teach the boy Occlumency. But only if it should be really necessary. Although it would have the added benefit of knowing how much the boy was already under Voldemort’s control.
Albus smiled lightly. Yes, he decided, if needs must, he would have Severus teach the boy the delicate art.
In the end, though, the most imperial thing would be for the boy to end it.
“He will have to die, Fawkes,” he told the Phoenix. The bird looked up at that and let out a sharp, wondrous tone. “It is prophesied. There is nothing I can do but to help him on this path.”
Fawkes chirped again and flapped his brilliant red wings lightly. Albus smiled benignly at the bird. “I’m glad you understand, my friend.”
xXxXxXx
A slim figure stood — partially hidden by the wandering shadows of the trees — watching the twinkling night-sky.
It was a clear night, with no pollution screening the bight moon — almost full the person thought, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips — and no clouds to obscure the brilliant diamonds shining high above.
A soft breeze waltzed through the leaves and the grass, gently letting them swing to its unseen rhythm, fabricating a lovely melody.
Sweet, sweet air filled the person’s lungs, his head, his mind.
All other sounds were distant, muted; simply not there. No cars disturbed this quiet scene, no bird sung this late.
Everything was quiet, everyone slept; all, but him.
Brilliant, shining emeralds disrupted the darkness of the shadows. They blinded with their intense brightness, they haunted with their intense brightness.
Shadows seemed to flash through them. More and more. Moving fast and swinging slow.
The man blinked.
Once more.
Then he turned his brilliant eyes towards the infinite sky, with its twinkling diamonds and cold vastness.
A small, nostalgic smile graced the person’s face.
There was Arcturus, shining brightly from his position in Boötes. Cassiopeia was just over there, not far away.
The Hydra’s heart beat steady with Alphard’s generous light; beautiful, but not as bright as Regulus.
But this little king, this prince, in its little constellation held no ground to the dragon. The dragon with its magnificent shine and gifted —
Burning flames erupted not far from the person. Bright eyes watched the display, watched as, for a short moment, the flames lit up the night and let the shadows fade.
In a moment, however, they were gone again, extinguished, and the obscurity of the shadows and night returned, once more bathing everything in its impenetrable blackness.
Brilliant, shining grey eyes took in the darkness. They flitted from the grass to the trees to the street to the sky to him.
The man blinked.
For a moment, something seemed to flash through his eyes; something dangerous, something soft.
His magic coursed through his body, swirled around him and spread out; out around the park, out towards the other person.
No-one spoke. Only the soft rustling of the leaves could be heard, quiet and calming and placid. Sometimes, some branches creaked — the trees were old after all — but no-one spoke.
Time seemed to have stopped.
A bomb could have been dropped next to the two; neither would have cared because… because…
It was familiar what met him in the middle.
Familiar and oh, so so lovely. So welcoming.
The person’s chest — his heart — ached, over and over and over it pulsed, pulsed, pulsed with an ache that he had long since learned to ignore but now blossomed to life anew.
His hand had long ago found its way to his chest — to protect his heart, to make sure that it wasn’t bleeding, was still beating, was still —
Gentle caresses, on his chest, on his heart, in his heart. Familiar motions, known endearment, awaited magic.
Something inside of him pulled; pulled and pulledandpulled until he, finally, took a step forward, and another.
Step after step.
One foot in front of the other.
Again and again.
The pull didn’t lessen. Instead, it grew stronger. More demanding. Even more eager.
The wind’s soft whisper — its melody and song — hushed their footsteps.
The night’s safe darkness cloaked them — hid them from spying eyes. From people who were not meant to see.
Only the Moon — bright and knowledgable to all the secrets of the night and keeping them safe also — bore witness to this meeting, this pull, this familiarity.
It was in the middle that they met, the two men, in the middle of the park, while the wind shielded them and the night hid them.
Strong arms wrapped around a thin frame; long arms wrapped around a lithe body.
Their chests — their hearts — pulse, pulse, pulsed as one.
Always.
Always thump thump thumping in perfect synchronisation, in perfect harmony.
The first person — the person with emeralds as eyes and hair as dark as the night protecting them — this person curled his fingers helplessly into the clothes of the other, holding on for dear life and never wanting to let go again. He tucked his head in the other person’s neck, breathing in his oh so familiar, so loved, scent.
It had been so long — too long — and so terribly lonely.
He could not loose him. Not again.
And so he breathed in, and closed his fists, and let all tenseness leave his body; leave his body just like his Little Moon’s blood had left her body. Just — flowing; out and out and out, never stopping, never lessening.
He slumped onto the other man, but the other, he just held on stronger, tighter.
The other person — the person with brilliant grey eyes and hair so pale it gleamed in the soft light of the moon — this person shifted his feet to take all of his weight. He tightened his arms around the emerald eyed man and drew him in, closer and closer and closeruntil they would be one. Were one.
His eyes closed in bliss, his lips stretched into a wide, content, wholesome smile.
They were finally one. Again. Once more.
It did not matter.
Magic swirled around them, twisting around the other, tangling, until it were not two anymore.
It swirled in ecstasy, and it sang in completeness. It tightened in the desire to never let go again. It felt like coming home after a long time.
Eventually, finally, arms slackened and feet moved apart.
They never let go completely.
Their magic never untangled.
Emerald met silver.
Silver met emerald.
“Your hair is short.”
A surprised, hoarse laugh tore itself out of the dark haired’s throat before a content smile settled on his features.
“I know,” he answered.
“It’s horrible.”
“I know.”
Hushed silence reigned once more in the empty park.
Eyes scanned the man opposite of them; searched them for injuries or signs — any signs — that they were unwell.
The one was too thin. The other was shaking.
Emerald eyes caught on the dark red little flower —
“I missed you.”
Grey eyes shone sorrowful in the low light of the moon; their gaze was knowing, understanding, and yet apologetic.
“I know, I’m sorry.”
Gently, a tan hand cupped a pale cheek. Both men smiled. Sadly.
“It’s not your fault.” Emerald answered, “I should thank you —“
“But I left!” The other interrupted. He grabbed the tan hand in his light one and held on tight, yet careful, “I promised I wouldn’t leave you; not again. I swore!”
“And I’m not alone. I’m here, with you, just like you swore.”
“You were,” came the quiet reply, almost nothing more but a whisper, lost to the wind, “you were alone, even more alone than ever before and I wasn’t there.”
Lips stretched into a strained, helpless smile.
“I wasn’t alone, not really.” He assured the other softly, “our Little Moon made sure of that. And even after she sent me here, she made sure that you would be here also.” guilty eyes met forgiving ones, “how long?”
“About a month,” the other man admitted without hesitation. Though, he did turn his head away slightly.
“See, you’ve been alone even longer than I have. And, if I remember correctly —” a huff of a laugh left the silver eyed man but the other simply ignored it and continued, “I also promised you something along the lines of ‘not even death do us apart.’ So if you broke your promise, then so did I.”
The other gave him a doll look before sighing resignedly. He let go of the hand and ran his own through his silvery hair.
Emerald eyes followed the motion; they watched the moonlight sparkle in those soft strands, observed envious the way the hair feel back down regally and once more got stuck on the red little flower behind his ear.
Before, in the shadows, this flower had looked so dark, almost black. But now, now that the moon shone on it, it was so much brighter, lighter. Still…
“We should —“
“You said red,” he interrupted, his voice accusing, even to his own ears, “Red. Not green, Phoenix.”
The man, Phoenix, lifted his hand to the flower, knowing instantly what the other was referring to.
“It was just red, honestly,” he smiled apologetic, “I just… well, you never did manage to make them in any other color, so I decided to help out.”
The other person opened his mouth, seemed to think better of it and closed his eyes, taking a deep breath before looking at Phoenix head on.
“You,” he pronounced, “are an idiot.”
Phoenix’s face shifted into a grin, his eyes soft and burning, “That makes too of us.”
The strangled sound that left his mouth, along with his hands tightly gripping Phoenix’s shirt, made Phoenix carefully lay his hands over them, gently prying them away to not ruin his clothes, and hold in a familiar hold.
“I’m fine, Emerald,” assured the blond, “I’m here and I’m fine. I promise.”
Stubborn eyes glared at him. “But what if you weren’t?” he asked accusingly. “What if something had happened? I wouldn’t have been able to help you. Because I wasn’t there, not even —“
Soft, familiar lips upon his own cut off his gasping words.
“It’s 1995,” Phoenix spoke with such an intensity all Emerald could do was close his mouth and listen, “the Dark Lord Riddle was resurrected just a few weeks ago, he’s weak and laying low. His most loyal are tightly locked up and off at Azkaban.
“Albus Dumbledore lost his title as the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot and Supreme Sorcerer of the ICW. He, alongside you, is being slaughtered by the press and not doing himself any favours for continuously belying the Dark Lord’s return without evidence.
“The Order of the Phoenix,” he snorted derisive, “reassembled and still have this fantastic mindset of Stunners instead of Avadas. Add to that that there’s absolutely nothing lasting they can do to me and you’ll find that I’m quite fine and in no danger from anything. Also, there’s nothing you could have done here without shouting to the world that we’re not who we’re supposed to be anymore.”
Emerald deflated, his posture slumped and his head landed on Phoenix’s shoulder.
“Just you wait,” he murmured tiredly. “Before we know it Riddle’s army with gathered and strong, Dumbles and me once more the second comings of Merlin and we’re in the thick of war, with absolutely no time or even mind to watch where we are while fighting. Mundanes will get wind of everything, et voilà, all will be the same again. We both know how it goes.”
“Well then, we best get started so it doesn’t get that far, don’t you agree?”
Dull, tired green eyes.
“Now, don’t look like that, my little shadow.” Phoenix coaxed the smaller, “We’ll manage.” He didn’t promise — he couldn’t — not with the possibility that they really couldn’t do it, “And then we’ll be free. You can have a family and we can go anywhere we want to, without anyone dictating our very step or having to be careful because of a war.”
Emerald’s eyes seemed to search his face, still heavily leaning on the taller man.
He knew it wouldn’t be this easy, no matter how it sounded now, and that there would be so much more than they could account for, and still —
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Okay.” He nodded determined. “How do we do this?”
A brilliant smile lit up Phoenix’s face, determination and mischief dancing in his eyes, “Magic.”
And despite the circumstances a laugh still tore itself out of Emerald’s throat. Soft eyes trailed his laughing face and crinkled at the corners lovingly.
“Now, what about the little Midnight stroll you mentioned?”
Another laugh, before silence once more reigned between them. Comforting, familiar, long awaited.
“Yes.” He finally hissed quietly.
The light of the Moon danced with the shadows of trees to the song of the wind; its unseen rhythm, its unheard melody. Calm and quiet and gentle.
The rhythm picked up. The melody got louder and harsher.
Shadows grew.
Flames flickered.
A crescendo, and —
Stars twinkled in the night sky unperturbed. Grass and leaves ruffled softly in the low breeze. A calm tranquility that only the night could bring settled down upon the sleeping park.
There was nothing to see.
Only the Moon — bright and knowledgable to all the secrets of the night — bore witness to this improbable meeting, this promise, this impossibility.
She would not tell.
xXxXxXx
(“We’ll collect them.”)
(“Here. Burn it when you memorized it.” “The secret?” “Yeah.”)
(“I burnt down half my room before she managed to put it out.”)
(“Do I even want to know how you got this?”)
(“Dumbles told them I’d finally taken the vision correction potion. They didn’t even ask me.”)
(“We’ll need help.”)
(“As quick as possible.”)
(“That the right street?”)
(“Mother knows. Or at least she suspects something.” “What did you do?”)
(“And the Goblins helped you?!”)
(“We can’t know who to trust.”)
(“I love you.”)
(“I love you.”)
i love you