HA 7a: Fawkes

HIM AGAIN: Chapter 7: The Dead We Loved - Fawkes


Brian Potter dropped down onto the grass, his little legs exhausted at last. Both the exercise and the heat had flushed his soft face - but he continued to burble happily, staring around with his large blue eyes at the sunlit flowerbeds and the glowing patio. An earthworm emerged from behind a large stone and eased its way past him. Birds spread their melodic discord from a nearby tree.

Inside, Albus Dumbledore did not need to fake the burbling that came so naturally to his new body’s mouth. The garden, he noted, was an idyllic scene - the type of idyllic scene that, had he been an ordinary child, should have come back to him in adulthood and painted a childhood full of waving tree branches and sunlight. Brian’s early life thus far had been almost identical to his in that the world was incredibly large and beautiful, with adults being nothing but shins and deep voices.

One only enjoys this once, he thought, gazing around cheerfully. Well, he corrected himself, normally once.

The creak of a chair behind him reminded him of the presence of Harry - seated in one of the patio chairs with a glass of pumpkin juice in hand. One glance told him that everything was as normal: the green eyes were fixed on the persona of Brian.

Albus was rapidly beginning to separate himself and Brian into two separate people. It was an irrefutable, often painful truth and it was a concept that occupied a lot of his thoughts. Brian Potter was the longed-for son, the innocent child who now sat burbling on the lawn - blue-eyed, quiet, buoyantly cheerful, devoid of any of the normal tantrum tendencies - loved and cherished by both his parents, symbolic of everything the war had been fought for. In a perfect world, Brian would be sat on Albus’s knee as an object to be revered for its very nature: the first-born son of Harry Potter, the next generation of hopeful youth. The Hogwarts Headmaster would have adored Brian, Albus thought somewhat sadly. Brian would have been treated like a scaled-down, adorably vulnerable version of Harry.

Then there was the late Albus Dumbledore - the deceased, R.I.P and all the rest of it. The former Headmaster was a pile of ashes or rotten bones, reduced to a memory to everyone who had ever known him. Albus sighed. How was he remembered? From an unbiased point of view - as unbiased as it could be with himself as the centre of perspective - he’d been a strange old man who had been thrust into the leadership of the side of light. To Ginny, Ron, Hermione and the others, he had been a shadowy figure of authority and not much more. To the Order, he had been a leader and an enigma. To Harry - now there, with Brian’s name as his witness, he had been lucky enough to be something special. When one really got down to it, however, he had been the chief manipulator of Harry’s life, continually withholding information whilst at the same time idealising one of his own students. The word Albus assigned to this image was ‘frustrating.’ To his staff - Merlin knew what he had been. To Minerva…

Albus felt his mind stall. Confused, he reached up to stroke a beard that was no longer there. Why was it so important to know how Minerva remembered him?

Of course, Minerva counted as a friend and was one of those few people who had come close to really knowing him. Yet, in the grand scheme of things, there was no reason for him to adopt - or wish to adopt - any great significance in her head. No, he mused miserably, he had just been her boss - her silly boss who couldn’t get the school records in order and was continually rushing off without any explanation at all.

Feeling irritated and upset - for no apparent reason - Albus forced Brian’s body upwards again and took a few, tottering steps towards Harry.

There was a sudden warmth in his chest cavity. Albus halted, shocked. A familiar feeling was spreading over him, a wonderful, incredible feeling… The birdsong around him became rapturous.

Harry felt his brow crinkle. Brian was standing stock-still in the middle of the lawn, with a very odd expression on his face. It was one of what Harry privately termed Brian’s ‘adult’ expressions - so convincing that it took great effort not to believe that Brian really was feeling such complex emotions as guilt or amusement. The look on his son’s face now was one of joyous, disbelieving surprise.

“Brian!” Harry called, softly.

For the first time, Brian ignored him and continued to stand, head turned slightly upwards, the look of pleasurable comprehension increasing in intensity. Harry sighed and took a sip of his pumpkin juice. He looked up at the cloudless sky - and started.

A golden speck was drifting far above the garden. Harry squinted. It looked like a bird, a funny red and gold….

Memories bombarded him. A scruffy second-year stood in the Headmaster’s office and gaped in horror at the pile of ashes that had been a bird - and later on saw pearly tears running down his arm. A grief-stricken fifteen-year-old fought against a golden statue as the same bird died for its master, and a sixth-year stared out of a window as the same bird flew away, its song shaping his misery into something beautiful.

It couldn’t be.

He was standing, though he couldn’t remember moving, and squinting into the sky, shading his glasses from the sun. The phoenix - for it was definitely a phoenix - was descending, diving its way towards the garden like an arrow. As it came closer, Harry could see the familiar fiery eyes and proud crest.

“Fawkes,” he breathed.

Dumbledore, whispered his mind. The two were inseparable. The last time he’d seen Fawkes was as the bird flew away after his master’s death. Bespectacled blue eyes twinkled at him.

You think the dead we have loved ever truly leave us?

The phoenix was in the garden now, mere feet away, and swooping down towards…

Harry saw Brian let out a laugh of pure joy and stretch out his short arms. Red and gold wings beat and the noble head extended - and the phoenix flew straight into Brian’s embrace as if it were home. There was a squawk and boy and phoenix clung together, as the birdsong reached a crescendo.

Harry dropped back into his chair. Perhaps it was just because of the shock of the moment, but Brian’s face altered, seeming to adopt the manner of one long gone. The large blue eyes twinkled and a small, knowing smile curved the infant lips. Then the impression was gone - but the phoenix was still there.

Emotion rendered Harry unable to speak. To see a neighbour walking a big black dog across the street was enough to choke him up, let alone the sight of his son clasping Dumbledore’s old phoenix to his chest. He got up slowly, afraid of frightening the bird away.

The phoenix’s head turned towards him and there was a trill of recognition. Brian smiled up at his father - and Harry got the impression that there had been some covert, silent agreement during the last few seconds - that Fawkes was his now and always would be. Tentatively, he reached out a hand and warm feathers brushed his skin.

“Fawkes… Brian, this is Fawkes…” Harry whispered, half to Brian and half to himself. “I can’t believe it… It‘s like he‘s back from the dead…”

Brian buried his face in Fawkes’s feathers. The phoenix crooned, just as it had in Dumbledore’s office during Harry’s sixth year - and, strangely, he had a similar urge to stare at his knees.