The sky was strewn with cumulus, like clothes carelessly unpacked from a trunk and flung aside. A gusty breeze blew through the hills, rippling the purple fields of heather and saxifrage; it blew on Phoenix Jones, too, but he hardly noticed it. He was a small eleven-year-old, with tangled black hair and clear blue eyes, and he was sweating beneath a night-blue worsted cloak a size too big for him. The cloak was heavy and hot, but he didn't want to stop to take it off. If he kept going, he wouldn't have to think about anything beyond the steep, narrow path he was following; he could use up all the breath he had just to complete the climb. By the time he reached the standing stone upon the summit of Bryn Gwyn, heart pounding, he was badly winded; for the next few minutes he was doubled over, gasping in the cool air.

It was the highest point for miles around. The grassy slopes of lesser hills were ranged about, all deserted but for the occasional white speck that marked a sheep in one of the higher pastures. On the far side, a distant tarn glinted in the afternoon sunlight like an unblinking eye: Llyn Draig, the dragon's pool, outcrops of dark granite lying jumbled above it. Looking back the way he had come, Phoenix could see the stone cottage where he lived, its purple-grey slate roof made tiny by the distance. Everything seemed very far away. But Phoenix's thoughts, as they returned unwelcome after the distraction provided by his exertions, were directed further afield still. Somewhere in the remote north was Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, where he was not going, and perhaps wouldn't ever go.

For a boy too young to attend Hogwarts, Phoenix was quite reliably acquainted with it, because he had read his mother's copy of Hogwarts: a History from cover to cover. Even more usefully, he'd spent much of the summer with Jane and Charlotte Williams, the only other wizarding children in the valley. They'd had some rather one-sided conversations: the girls had happily related their Hogwarts experiences to him, including detailed advice on boarding-school life, and Phoenix had listened. They had discussed in depth the perils of encountering the school's caretaker, Filch; its poltergeist, Peeves; and even the groundskeeper, Hagrid. They had explained that some of the teachers were unusually difficult to deal with, although Charlotte and Jane disagreed on which ones these were. Jane had even been able to tell tales of Hogsmeade, which sounded tremendously exciting and rather crowded -- at least to Phoenix, who had hardly ever met anyone from outside the valley he was born in. But it had been Charlotte's enthusiastic week-by-week account of her first year at school that he'd liked best of all; it was clear enough that going away to Hogwarts was the best thing that had ever happened to her. It wasn't going to happen to him, though.

The news had broken on him like a summer storm. After breakfast, when the dishes had been set to quietly washing themselves, Phoenix's parents had returned to the kitchen table and sat down across from him. There was something they needed to discuss with him, they'd said. His dad's face had been unusually solemn; he'd been slowly running his fingers through his soft, curly black beard and he'd had his wand out. That didn't mean there was any magic to be done: it meant that Phoenix would be paying close attention to what was said, because it would be important. All the same, the world seemed to stop when his mum spoke up.

“We've decided not to send you to Hogwarts.�

He hadn't understood at first. “But -- I can't go to any of those foreign wizard schools, can I?�

“You could,� she'd corrected him gently, “but you won't. We don't want to send you to a wizard school at all.�

The astonishment must have showed on his face. “Am I going to St. David's High, then?� He'd never expected to go to school with Muggles. The nearest town with a secondary school was a long bus ride away; perhaps he'd be allowed a broomstick instead? That might be all right.

“No, no, not St. David's, either.� His mum seemed startled at the very idea. “We're a wizarding family; we wouldn't ever send you to a Muggle school. But you're doing all right with us, here at home, so we've decided we can teach you as well as anyone for the time being. You're probably ahead of the Hogwarts first-years, anyway -- a lot of them have barely handled a wand before they get there. I expect you'd find the lessons a bit boring.�

Phoenix hadn't been able to make sense of the explanation at first. He'd looked back across the table at his parents' faces -- his mother's piercing blue eyes regarding him intently, his father tight-lipped -- and a daydream he'd been dipping into all summer had washed coldly, cruelly back over him. He was sitting on one of the long benches in the Great Hall, surrounded by hundreds of other Hogwarts students, with dozens of nearby conversations babbling around him like a stream in flood. The exuberant light of thousands of candles glittered off the golden plates with which the four huge tables were laid; a boy he didn't know waved across the Hall at him, while the ghost of an armoured knight drifted between them. It couldn't have been more different from mealtimes at home: just himself, his mother, and his father, eating in the kitchen at a table barely big enough for the three of them, while the silent hills grew dusky outside. The loss of so much life and noise was painful in a way he couldn't have imagined yesterday, but he had lacked the words to say so.

“Why me? Everyone else gets to go to Hogwarts!�

“We want what's best for you, not for some other child,� his mother had told him gently. “You're special to us. You'll do better away from Hogwarts, at least for the time being.�

Phoenix had argued further, but not for very long; he'd been too shocked to put the words together. It hadn't made any difference, anyway; his parents were decided. Eventually, he had sat there saying nothing at all, until the silence was broken by his father.

“We'll be able to start some proper magic, now that you're old enough,� his dad had murmured, soft-spoken but intent. “I reckon you've a talent for potion-making, and there are wild plants around here you haven't even seen yet. I'll show you -- here, where are you running off to?�

But whatever Griff Jones had promised to show his son, it hadn't been nearly enough to make up for losing Hogwarts. “Bryn Gwyn,� Phoenix had mumbled inaudibly as he headed for the back door, and his parents had let him go. They were good that way -- although they seldom ventured more than a few miles from the cottage themselves, and had never taken Phoenix even that far, they considered everywhere within those limits to be their home. The top of Bryn Gwyn was Phoenix's favourite place in the world; as he lay on his back beside the megalith, staring up at the clouds as they came and went, he couldn't think of anywhere else he might have fled to. Certainly not to the Williams house, with its window on all that had now been denied him. Nor to the Evans farm: though he'd been content to play with Dail and Norman -- both his own age -- for years, today he had no stomach for conversation that would always touch on shearing and rugby, but never on magic. The Evanses had always treated him kindly, but he knew they regarded his parents as more than a little odd. “Alternative lifestylers,� Mrs. Evans had muttered once, when she thought Phoenix couldn't hear her. “I don't know how they manage, all the way up here, without even owning a car.� No, the only place that wouldn't feel wrong, today, was the summit of this ancient hill. If he was not to board the Hogwarts Express, nor become a Ravenclaw like his mother nor a Hufflepuff like his father, then he would have to make that do.

It was so unfair. Of course, his parents had denied him things in the past; big things, even. Last winter, tiring of the rain and mud, he'd tried to hint that a broomstick would make an ideal Christmas present. His father, who hardly ever flew his own broom, had been unmoved: “The magic in these hills can't be appreciated by flying over them, son. You need to walk the land, know every plant and insect...� But this was different: weren't there authorities responsible for ensuring wizard children went to school? He looked into space, as though appealing to the horizon, and caught a glimpse of the distant sea. It didn't offer him any help.

Could his parents possibly be right? While he wasn't quite Transfiguring armchairs into armadillos just yet, it was true that he'd mastered some magic already. More, probably, than the typical Hogwarts student had acquired by the end of their first year. Charlotte had been most impressed when she found out that he could make a true invisible ink, and had insisted on being shown how to do it, hinting that it would be invaluable for passing notes in class. Phoenix himself, of course, wouldn't ever need it for that: he had no-one to pass notes to...

A slight tickling on Phoenix's forehead intruded upon his thoughts. With his left hand, he extracted a small brown spider from his hair. It was a hunter, not a web-spinner, but it still didn't seem to belong up here, in this exposed place. Perhaps he'd carried it all the way up Bryn Gwyn with him? It did seem a bit lost. Surrounded by an ocean of air, the spider could only cling to the pinnacle of Phoenix's finger, scuttling up and down it in a state of great agitation. He watched the tiny creature for a while, then carefully reached into his robes, extracted his wand from its special pocket, and whispered: “Wingardium Leviosa!�. The Levitation Charm lifted the spider into the air, beyond arm's reach; then, before the wind could blow it away, returned it safely to the ground, where it promptly took refuge underneath a stone. If only he could have resolved his own predicament so easily.

Phoenix woke before dawn the next morning, his bedroom full of dim outlines. The titles on his well-stocked bookshelf were indiscernible in the gloom, but they were all familiar enough: Tom Brown at Hogwarts; Amanda Price And The Dread Gazebo; Prestidigitation By The Planets; The Wind In The Willows (one of his mother's favourites, Muggle book though it was); How To Charm Your Beetle; All The World's Dragons. His cloak made an indistinct heap on the floor. Lying on his oak desk were the silhouettes of a jar of ink, a quill, a pack of Self-Shuffling playing cards, and his wand. It was an old wand, sycamore and phoenix feather; it had once belonged to his grandmother, who had chosen the wood for it from a tree that grew outside the back door of this very cottage, where she had lived as a girl. That tree wasn't there any more, but the family still had some old spoons made from the wood.

It was the thought of Naini Jones that steeled him to act. She hadn't been in the habit of following anyone's instructions, and she had certainly gone to Hogwarts -- she'd been a famous Hufflepuff Head Girl, or so he'd been told -- so why couldn't he? Surely he could! But not if he spent his days stalking off up Bryn Gwyn, feeling sorry for himself. If he wanted to get himself to school, he was going to have to do something.

The notion frightened Phoenix a little, but there was a tiny thrill in it, too. He didn't know what would happen if his parents' wishes were persistently disobeyed. The voices they'd used yesterday had had that special tone, the one that marked the end of any dissension over extra helpings of pudding or a later than usual bedtime, and they were bound to think that whether he went to school or not was a lot more serious than that. Whatever he did now would be like exploring a whole new country, with the Hogwarts Express waiting somewhere beyond it. He wasn't really looking forward to going there, but he would if he could.

But could he do it? Could he induce his parents to change their minds? His mum and dad weren't easily persuaded of anything, once they had decided otherwise. He postponed getting up in order to consider how to tackle the problem.

What he needed was a plan. Lying in bed, he imagined a quill writing on parchment:

How to avoid learning all my magic at home.

That made him feel better already.

His bedroom grew lighter. The sun rose late on the Jones cottage, blocked by the steep walls of the valley in which it lay, but already enough light was finding its way into the room to show the dust motes in the air, drifting aimlessly, unhurriedly ...

Think. The autumn term at Hogwarts would be starting within weeks; what would convince his mum and dad that he should be there for it? Some magic he needed to learn, maybe, something his parents couldn't teach him? Perhaps he could look through some more of the family's books. But most of those were his mother's, and she'd had them for years; she'd know everything in them, wouldn't she?

And then, visualising the friendly, dusty bookshelf, Phoenix suddenly had a different idea. He should write to Albus Dumbledore. Of course! Although Hogwarts: A History devoted relatively few pages to the last half century or so, it did find space to quote Dumbledore: “Help will always be given at Hogwarts, to those who ask for it.� True, he wasn't at Hogwarts yet -- that was what he needed the help with -- but it still sounded promising. Surely, if he wrote a suitable letter -- and he was confident that he could, it was only writing after all -- the headmaster would come to his aid? The only difficulty would be getting it delivered. The family owl, Emmy, had been busy all week, but once she was free again, he might be able to contrive some excuse to borrow her.

He began to compose the letter to Dumbledore in his head, choosing the words carefully. Dear Professor Dumbledore, I'm writing to you because of my-- what? “Circumstances�, or “situation�? Should he refer to Hogwarts' “reputation�, or “prestige�, or would either be too pretentious? What was he seeking: “assistance�, or “aid�? He had reached the third paragraph before he decided to adjourn for the moment by getting out of bed, dressing, and going in search of breakfast.

He found his mother seated at the kitchen table, doing the Daily Prophet's cryptic crossword. Her gaze was focused on the page, her brow furrowed in concentration. On the table in front of her lay a disregarded fried egg, a pen-knife, and the shavings from a newly-trimmed quill. Phoenix sat on the other side of the table and began to work his way through generous helpings of toast, an egg, bacon, and sausage. His favourite foods had become more abundant in the last twenty-four hours; he could guess the reason, but decided that he wasn't appeased. Well, not much anyway.

“Morning, Phoenix. Transfigured pictures good enough to eat; eight letters.� His mum looked up at him quizzically, her long fingers toying with the magnificent eagle-feather quill she'd been shaping.

He pondered. Something edible, made from pictures: a cake with lots of decorative icing, perhaps, like the one his mum had made for his last birthday? But that wouldn't be enough of a clue -- Transfiguration could produce anything -- it was the word he needed to transfigure -- and then he had it. “Piecrust,� he declared.

“Oh, well done.� She happily wrote the word in. Phoenix considered seizing the moment to return to the subject of school, but decided against it. He would need to marshal his arguments carefully first.

“Where's Dad today?�

“Outside. He was up early, and, ah -- wanted to get started on the garden.�

After brushing his teeth, Phoenix wandered outside. The wind was as keen as ever, but it was a bright day, and would be hot later. His father was in amongst the herb plantings, picking out weeds from the henbane patch. It was fiddly work, made even slower by the way his dad was stopping twice a minute to scan the sky, as if there were an invisible thunderstorm he had to keep an eye on.

“Morning, Dad. That looks like it'll take all day.�

“Half the day, perhaps. Later on I'm going to pull out a couple of the Mandrakes, so keep your earmuffs handy.�

He looked up again, and Phoenix followed his gaze. A tiny dot had appeared amid the blue; as they both watched, it grew larger, developing wings which it flapped occasionally, and finally resolving itself into a barn owl. An owl flying during the day meant only one thing: the post had arrived. By the time it settled on the stone wall around the garden, Phoenix could see that the bird was clutching a thick yellow envelope in its beak. It was near enough that he could almost read the address, which was neatly handwritten in purple ink.

His father hurried over to the wall, reaching out to collect the envelope -- and the owl took flight. But if it was having second thoughts about handing the letter over, it didn't get very far with them, because Phoenix's dad had adopted a duelling stance, with his wand extended, and was casting a carefully aimed spell.

“Evanesco!� The letter vanished, with a faint crackling sound. The owl circled once, giving them a reproachful look, before flying off.

“Nice shot, Dad!�

“Thanks. No harm in staying in practice.�

“What was that letter?�

“Just another offer of something we don't need. Feel like giving me a hand with this garden?�

There were no further interruptions, which gave Phoenix plenty of time to think. For most of the morning, what he had to think about was weeding. That took a lot of care and attention, because it wasn't easy to avoid pulling out any plant that a wizard might consider valuable. Most of the vegetation growing untidily around the cottage -- dandelion, basil, groundsel, nettle, shepherd's purse, thyme -- had some magical use or other, at least if it was the right time of year. By the time Griff Jones stood up and rubbed his hand over his beard, proudly surveying a productive garden that managed to look almost exactly like a piece of neglected waste ground, it was midday.

After lunch, Phoenix was warned that his mother would be in the tiny room that served as a potion workshop for the next few hours, and was not to be disturbed. Phoenix would have quite liked to know what she would be brewing, but didn't ask: being told to keep away probably meant that she considered it a bit dangerous, and was unlikely to be forthcoming with details. Anyway, there was an equally perilous alternative on offer: fully-grown Mandrake roots to be harvested. Griff remarked, as he always did on these occasions, that it was just as well there was no-one but the three of them living within earshot; then he made sure of it anyway, muttering “Homenum revelio!� just in case the Evans boys, or anyone else, should be coming up the track for a visit. Even at a distance, he said -- though Phoenix knew it perfectly well already -- the Mandrakes' screaming could easily have been fatal to the unprotected listener. Then he must have checked Phoenix's earmuffs half a dozen times: twice before extracting each root, and again after it was all over, before wiping the sweat from his brow.

With that done, there were the chickens to feed, and Brian, the dog, and Jack and Jill, the double-ended newts. As the shadows began to lengthen, Phoenix realised that he hadn't, after all, managed to get much thinking done. (Somewhere in the back of his head, a treacherous voice suggested that his parents might have kept him busy all day on purpose; he did his best to ignore it.) Never mind: it was time to act, with a plan or without one. He went inside, washed his face and hands, and cornered his mother in the kitchen.

He found her getting dinner ready, severing the fat from a leg of lamb with her wand while an unsupervised knife was finely chopping mint leaves behind her. Perhaps he should tackle her when she was less busy? But no, Phoenix's mum could be obstinate at the best of times, and anyway, just lately she'd seemed to be busy all the time.

“Mum, why can't I go to Hogwarts? Really?�

She turned to look at him, lamb-fat forgotten.

“Because,� she said, speaking in a careful, deliberate manner, “your father and I have spent several months thinking conscientiously about how to best continue your education, discussing it between ourselves every night after you went to bed, and that's what we decided. Is that good enough for you?�

It wasn't. But now that Phoenix had started questioning, he found that he had the courage to continue.

“But -- it can't be best for me to be treated differently from everyone else! Can it?�

“Of course it can! Phoenix Jones, don't ever let me catch you doing anything just because other people do! There are people out there with all kinds of strange ideas about what is and isn't appropriate behaviour, and none of it has the least bit to do with you. You have more than enough ability to be different from them if you want to be. How many other kids taught themselves to read when they were two, just by looking through Common Magical Ailments and Afflictions? You can be a fine wizard -- a great wizard, even -- without ever setting foot in a magical school, and don't go telling yourself otherwise.�

“Well, what if I don't want to be different? I want to go to Hogwarts with everybody else.�

His mum paused before responding. “I think,� she began slowly, “you'd find Hogwarts rather different from the impression you've got by reading my books.� She grimaced slightly. “When I was there, I was stuck with twelve other Ravenclaw girls in my year. Some of them were friends, in twos and threes, and some were enemies, or just refused to speak to each other sometimes, but I was -- on my own. The one left over, the unlucky thirteenth, reading by myself in the library. Hogwarts didn't fail me: I left with half a dozen NEWTs, but I could have studied for them just as well somewhere else. Better, perhaps.�

That was a bit hard to swallow. “There's nowhere better than Hogwarts!�

She smiled then. “I used to think so too, all the time I was there. But I know I did my most artful work, the magic I'm really proud of, after I followed your father back here. Your magic comes from within you: there's really no need to be surrounded by strangers to make it work. You'll see.�

He wasn't sure that he would see, so he tried another tack. “I won't be surrounded by strangers! I know Charlotte and Jane already!�

His mother turned back to the meat; for a few moments he could only hear her muttering “Diffindo! Diffindo!�. Then, she faced him again with a sigh.

“It's nice of the Williamses to have you over in the holidays, but Jane and Charlotte are older than you; they won't want to hang around with a first-year once they get back to school.� She looked at him pityingly. “Oh, Phoenix, I know you're disappointed, but we're only trying to do what's best for you. You won't really understand until you're a parent yourself. We love you and would do anything, anything at all, to give you the chances you deserve in life.�

“All right, but what are you protecting me from? It's just school! What are you so worried about?�

She pursed her lips, and a darker look crossed her face. “We'd like to think Hogwarts was safe enough, but it hasn't always been so. Much worse things have happened to kids there than not having any friends, and they aren't all ancient history either. The students at that school come from a lot of different wizarding backgrounds -- there are some who arrive knowing more curses than we hope you ever will. We'd rather you weren't exposed to that sort.�

And before Phoenix could digest this, his father entered through the front door. He seemed to be in a good mood.

“Roast lamb? My favourite.� He kissed his wife, oblivious to the frown on her face. “The garden gnomes are on the move again; looks like we'll have to shift the Bird-Eating Moth-Plant to make room for them. We can get started tomorrow morning, we'll need to be out there early in any case. And I've got plans for the old gnomeholes: they'll be the perfect place to put -- what?�

He looked at Phoenix, who was staring at him with a dawning realisation.

“You Vanished my letter! That was what the owl brought this morning, my Hogwarts letter! You were waiting for it, but the owl wouldn't give it to you, it was addressed to me, so� -- he didn't like the accusing tone in his own voice, but there it was -- “you destroyed it!�

“Vanished objects aren't destroyed, Phoenix, they only --� his mother started to say. But his father, most unusually, interrupted her.

“Never mind that. Yes, Phoenix, the letter was for you. And I got rid of it, because it's unnecessary. Perhaps --�

“Why? What harm could it do to let me read it, at least!� He was becoming loud and shrill with the unfairness of it all. His parents weren't just denying him Hogwarts; it almost seemed they'd prefer it if no such place existed.

“I'm going up to Llyn Draig tomorrow,� his father said, in exactly the same even, measured tone he'd have used if he were not being shouted at. “You can come with me. That's a good place; we'll go into it there.�

But Phoenix was already bolting for the door. He'd had enough of standing in the kitchen, being told that he couldn't have the thing he most desperately wanted, hating his parents for not giving it to him. Outside, he began to stalk furiously in circles around the house, as though tethered to it. His own dad, who was wise and patient and never, ever lost his temper, thought that his Hogwarts letter was unnecessary. He hadn't even put the letter on the compost heap, where he put most waste parchment -- he'd deliberately Vanished it, to make quite sure that Phoenix would never read it.

After six circuits of the cottage, Phoenix realised he was walking widdershins, and hastily reversed direction. He didn't really know what would happen after the seventh time around, but today didn't seem like a good day to find out, even with several hours still left before twilight. Not that he knew what else to do with the time, except go back inside. Perhaps he would be punished for his bad behaviour, or perhaps (a small thought suggested) not. Perhaps he would indeed understand everything when he had his own children -- but that day was far off, out of his reach like everything else.

Early the next morning, all three members of the Jones household were waiting by the garden gate; none of them had even thought about breakfast yet. Griff Jones was digging over an unused piece of ground, having apparently forgotten how to bewitch his spade to make it do the work on its own. His wife sat on a flat-topped granite boulder, engrossed in the Prophet crossword. Their son stood, shifting his weight occasionally from one foot to another. All three of them cast frequent glances at the pale blue sky.

“Feline's joints: will we hear?� Phoenix's mum queried, breaking the silence as she looked at him hopefully. “Seven letters.�

“Kneazle,� Phoenix replied at once. She hadn't really needed the help with that one.

Phoenix was just beginning to wonder how long they would all be there, particularly if there should turn out not to be any post that day, when a sharp turn of his mother's head indicated that she had seen something. He followed her gaze, and after a few moments saw them too: a pair of dots, approaching at speed. By the time the two big tawny owls were fluttering in towards a landing on the wall, they had an attentive audience of three. One owl bore an envelope: purple ink on yellow, just like yesterday's. The other did not appear to be carrying anything.

Phoenix clutched his father's arm. “Dad --�

His dad didn't shake him off, exactly, but he wasn't distracted, either. As soon as the owl with the envelope came within range, he reached out with his wand hand. “Evanesco!�

It took Phoenix a few moments to work out what had happened next. The letter was gone, its bearer squawking indignantly; his parents were looking around, squinting into the newly risen sun; then the second owl flew back into view, now with an envelope in its beak. The same envelope, as far as he could tell. Neither owl seemed much inclined to settle; both circled, awaiting the Jones' next move.

“Evanesco!� Again the letter vanished; again it reappeared, now back with the owl that had first brought it. “Evanesco!� Now the second owl had it again. Was it possible for owls to have smug expressions on their faces? If so, this pair certainly did.

“Wait,� Phoenix's mother interposed. “Try something else. How about� -- she raised her own wand -- “Glisseo!�

The owl flapped its wings furiously; for half a moment, it seemed to be losing its grasp on the letter. But just as it slipped out of the bird's beak and began its fall to the ground, it disappeared. Four pairs of eyes turned to the other owl, and noted the yellow envelope, firmly in its clutches.

“What do you reckon, Phoebe?� Griff Jones cast a worried and frustrated look at his wife.

Phoenix's mother was concentrating; the owls might have been a particularly unyielding crossword clue. “Switching Spell. It would be simple enough to do: the birds aren't even swapping beaks. Or perhaps they are; it doesn't matter.�

“It matters to them, I'm sure,� her husband admonished her.

She ignored him, and frowned. “It isn't true invulnerability, nothing like it, but there aren't many spells that will work properly on an object that's already halfway to being somewhere else.� She thought for a while. Phoenix thought about it too, unable to help himself; only in the back of his mind was something reminding him that he'd much rather the conundrum was never solved at all.

“Vanishing Spells,� his mother decided. “You had the right idea to begin with, my dear, we just need to do them together. You do that one -- she waved vaguely at the owl with the letter -- and I'll do the other. One, two --�

A moment after “three�, the two Vanishing Spells reached their targets simultaneously. His father's struck the letter; it seemed to flicker uncertainly for a moment, then it was gone. His mother had been aiming for the other owl, which now looked surprised to find itself as empty-beaked as the first. The two owls turned towards each other in mid-air and hooted noisily; each seemed to be reproving the other for misplacing a valuable piece of wizard post.

“How did you do that?� Phoenix was no less amazed than the owls; he even forgot, temporarily, what it was that had just been lost. “You Vanished a thing that wasn't there!�

“But it would have been, without the spell,� his mother explained. “Vanishment merely denies the possibility of being. This object's enchantment gave it two ways to be; two spells sufficed to drive it into non-being.�

“Right, that's that then, at least for today.� Phoenix's dad looked relieved. “Phoenix, I think you should --�

“We're not finished yet,� his mother interrupted. “Look at the owls: they're not flying off.� And nor were they: both remained in flight nearby, as disinclined to depart as they were to land.

“Can't I at least read my letter?� Phoenix asked plaintively. “I'd like to just look at it. Please?� He felt as if he were addressing the world in general; one of the owls gave a sympathetic hoot.

“You can wait inside if you'd rather,� his mum told him, still scanning the sky distractedly. “I know this can't be any fun for you. We'll make it up to you, I promise.�

But a warm, reassuring thought was germinating in the back of Phoenix's brain. Someone at Hogwarts wanted to make sure he got that letter, had taken considerable trouble to post it again today. Someone was on his side! And that meant that not everything was decided after all, not at least to the satisfaction of -- did he dare think it? -- Albus Dumbledore. There was still a chance he would see Hogwarts Castle; he would not give up.

He was returned to the present by an awareness that the local owl population was increasing again. Four more tawnies were approaching; they were still too distant to be seen clearly, but his mother was already indicating one of them with her wand.

“That one has it, see, dear?� she said over her shoulder.

Griff had excellent eyesight; he nodded immediately. Phoenix squinted at the new arrival and spotted the odd bulge by its head: the bird was carrying something in its beak. Something rectangular, something that apparently had more than two ways of being.

“What are we going to do now, Phoebe? There aren't six of us.� Phoenix had seldom seen his dad sounding so unsure of himself.

His mother was stumped as well. “I don't know,� she muttered. “Perhaps -- but no, that would just -- how many more of them are there, I wonder?� Phoenix watched her thinking, fascinated despite himself. His mum could solve any magical puzzle, but would she find a solution for this one before the owls arrived?

“Got it.� His dad was beaming; as the owl with the letter came diving steeply towards them, he took careful aim at it. “Geminio!� The owl sheered off as the Duplication Spell hit, but it was only surprised; the envelope was still firmly clutched in its beak. And not only there: quickly scanning the small flock of owls now circling the cottage, Phoenix saw that two of them now carried letters.

“What?� Phoenix's mother sounded confused.

“Allow me.� Her husband looked pleased; he didn't often get the chance to enlighten his wife on magical technique. “Geminio! Geminio!� And within a few moments, all of the owls bore envelopes. “Right, I think that's all taken care of.� He lowered his wand, and motioned to his wife to do the same.

“Ah.� Now Phoebe Jones appeared deeply impressed. “That's clever. Playing to your strengths, so to speak.�

It was still a mystery to Phoenix what was so clever about Duplicating a letter one wished to be rid of, but he didn't care to ponder the solution. All six owls were now settling in a rough circle on the ground around him, proffering identical-looking yellow envelopes. Without further thought, he seized one and tore it open.

Inside was a piece of the same thick parchment that the envelope was made of. Phoenix had turned it over in his hand five or six times before his brain, eager to start reading, caught up with what his eyes were seeing. He'd known what to expect, of course: a brief note, signed by the Deputy Headmistress, informing him that the school term would start on the first of September, and listing the books and other items that he would need. What he hadn't envisioned, not even in his most dreadful imaginings, was a sheet of parchment blank on both sides.

He would not look up, he wouldn't. He knew his parents were watching him, but he refused to meet their eyes. Instead, he peered desperately at the parchment he was holding, willing it to explain itself. It was rather grubby, he noticed; not so much an unwritten page as one which appeared to have been written on, and then greasily rubbed out. There were, in fact, some faint markings that might have been quill-strokes, but even in the bright morning sunlight he could not make them resemble letters, let alone words. His eyes felt hot; did Hogwarts not want him after all?

“Phoenix,� his father was saying to him gently; it was an effort to start listening. “I'm going up Llyn Draig this morning. I think you should come with me. All right?�

“All right.� The disappointment would probably have sent him brooding in that direction anyway. Having his dad with him might not make things any worse; at any rate, it was the line of least resistance. He put the letter that said nothing in his pocket, and made an effort to smile at his dad.

The track that led up the valley was narrow and rough; no Muggle vehicles ever came this far up. Phoenix and Griff trudged it on foot, the son following his father, watching the haversack swinging on his back. Brian the border collie trotted along behind them. Their way followed a stream, which it crossed at one point on a rustic bridge made from two planks. Phoenix's dad waited on the other side for him to catch up, regarding the trickle in the streambed with sad interest. “Could all do with some rain,� he remarked laconically, once Phoenix had safely crossed, before walking on.

As they skirted the flanks of Bryn Gwyn, the last of the scrubby hedges flanking the path disappeared. The day was becoming warm, even though they were travelling high enough now to see the tops of all the green hills around them, like folds in an immense rumpled blanket. At length Griff stopped again, took out a battered old tin cup, and used magic to fill it with water. Nearby, a rock with a slight concavity served as a ready-made water-dish for Brian. Wordlessly, all three of them drank.

As they reached the higher slopes, they passed the place where Phoenix had got lost when he was seven. He hadn't panicked -- he seemed to remember just sitting on a rock for ten minutes or so, and thinking about what a fine spot this was, and how warm the sunshine -- but eventually he'd decided that he'd really like his dad to find him again soon, and with that thought a shower of red sparks had shot skywards with some quite impressively loud bangs. His first involuntary magic. Naini Jones' old wand had chosen him shortly after that.

Llyn Draig lay in a small glacial valley, with a steep rocky outcrop rising behind it. Its shores were an upland meadow filled with wild flowers. It was one of Phoenix's favourite places; some of his earliest memories were of roaming the nearby hillsides with his mother or father, looking for rare plants that might enable the brewing of some worthwhile potion, returning always to this calm, untroubled pool. He sat with his dad, Brian lying on the ground beside them, gazing at a single cloud reflected in the surface of the water.

“This is how magic used to be,� said Griff quietly, after a long while. “A wild place with power, quiescent for years perhaps, waiting, until a wizard or witch should come to work their art with it.� He paused, reflecting on his own words. “With it, not on it, you understand?�

Phoenix nodded. He loved to hear his father talk like this; it sent a shiver up his spine, as though he were being vouchsafed some ancient, secret wisdom. A light gust of wind rippled the surface of the tarn, adding to the effect.

“They were your ancestors, and mine,� his dad went on, “some of those old sorcerers. All this was the Kingdom of Gwynedd, in the days when they did their magic; the old kings knew what they did, and the hills knew it too. It's only in modern times that wizards have started to congregate, hiding in crowds in the great Muggle cities, enchanting cars and plugs and what-have-you. There's a lot to be said for exchanging ideas with other magical folk, of course, but it's not the natural order of things, not the way the magic wants to be. The profoundest wizards always stayed in touch with the high places, the sources of their power; they didn't spend much time teaching tricks to each other. Owls don't flock, my granddad used to say, and I reckon he had it right.�

“Is that why you don't want me to go to Hogwarts?� Phoenix still had all his longing to do just that, but at the same time, he felt a kind of detachment. His dad had that effect on him sometimes: it was worth something just to listen to him.

“Yes. You can learn wand-waving anywhere, but to truly make the magic your own, you need to know your place. This place, where you were born. To hear the wind in the hills, smell the life forces in the spring, feel the thunder.�

They sat for a while. Phoenix didn't respond, and his father didn't need to say anything further. Out on the tarn, the cloud's reflection was starting to resemble an awkward face; it was smiling slightly. He watched as it drifted across the reflected sky; his troubles not forgotten, quite, but diminished for the moment.

“Dad,� Phoenix ventured at length, “why can't I at least read the letter?�

His father sighed. “It would be better not to. It's not wrong to want things, but there's no wisdom in filling your head with what you can't have. Try this: imagine there's some wizard, somewhere, who already has everything that you're pining after, but he's unhappy� -- he paused, for just long enough for Phoenix to begin to grasp this -- “because he desperately desires the things that you're lucky enough to possess. It does neither of you any good to dwell on dreams, and forget to live.� He waited a few moments before adding, “So I got rid of it for you.�

“How did you do it, though?� Phoenix's curiosity got the better of him. “Where did you learn to do Geminio like that?�

“I can show you that one.� Griff drew his wand. “Almost any single thing has the potential to be two, in the presence of a wizard; you just have to challenge it. See that cinquefoil?� -- he pointed the wand at a tiny plant growing within easy reach -- “Geminio!� Instantly, there were two bright yellow flowers on a stem that had borne only one before.

Feeling determined, Phoenix took out his grandmother's wand. Perhaps he couldn't have Hogwarts, but he was still a wizard. He glared at another of the yellow flowers, and growled “Geminio!� Nothing happened.

“Your pronunciation's spot on, first try,� his father praised him. “Try cupping the flower in your hand, like this...�

He spent the next hour trying, unsuccessfully, to duplicate wild flowers. At times a sharp breeze set the meadow fluttering, but the number of flowers in it did not increase as a result. Once, a solitary butterfly drifted along the shore, and Phoenix wondered if it might be any more susceptible to magic than the flowers seemed to be, but it was gone before he could try. The spell seemed to be a difficult one, but he didn't mind -- feeling the magic flow spurred him on, and his father appeared content to encourage him for as long as he was willing to keep trying it.

Every so often, Griff performed the spell himself, by way of demonstration, and after a while Phoenix noticed something interesting. Not only did each stem now carry many flowers, instead of its original one, but the yellow petals had become paler and paler with each replication, until now they were almost white. He could hardly help mentioning it.

“They aren't really supposed to fade like that,� his dad admitted. “I never quite mastered the spell well enough to produce perfect copies. But it comes in quite handy sometimes.�

“Like with my letter, you mean.� Phoenix pulled out the crumpled envelope, noticing for the first time that the address had faded to illegibility as well. Not wanting to spoil his dad's mood, he stuffed the envelope back into his pocket, and poked at one of the plants with his wand. “Geminio!� The stem shook as the spell hit it, and suddenly there were more white flowers on it than there had been, two or three more. Success!

“Well done, mate!� His dad beamed and slapped him on the back; Phoenix found himself grinning too. “That's real magic -- took me weeks of practicing to pull that one off.� They stood up, both pleased with themselves. “Well, I think it's time we started heading back; don't want your mum to worry.� He took up his wand again and began to reverse the enchantments, returning each plant to its pristine state, with a single yellow flower. “All these flower heads on one stalk aren't natural,� he explained, “they'll die if we leave them like this. And that wouldn't do, because they're fairly rare around here.�

“What are they good for?� Phoenix asked. “I mean, what magic can you do with them?�

“None that I'm aware of,� his father replied. “But they've been in these hills for thousands of years, season after season, ever since the ice retreated. Theirs is a magic even older than wizards'; the likes of you and I owe it some respect, don't you think?�

As they tramped back down the valley, Phoenix felt a glow of contentment. He had mastered a new spell -- a really hard one, from all he could tell. And what was more, as they left the uplands he had spotted a genuinely magical plant, and sneaked a few of the petals into his pocket. He had a feeling he was going to get to read that letter after all.

The next morning, Phoenix woke with a new sense of purpose. He was no nearer getting to school than he'd ever been, but now he had something to do, and that in itself seemed to shed some light on the way ahead. He rolled out of bed and dressed briskly.

His mother was in her usual place at the kitchen table, steaming cup of tea and Prophet in front of her, poring over the crossword. She smiled at him as he entered the room.

“Sleep well?�

“Great, thanks.�

“They cannot be impartially taken. Five letters.�

“Hmm.� The solution didn't immediately make itself apparent. “Have to think about that one.�

He was thinking all the way through his scrambled egg on toast, but not about the crossword clue. It was the cauldrons that were on his mind: in particular, how to obtain the use of one for the day? The family owned at least a dozen of them, from hefty cast-iron models to a tiny pewter pipkin. Although Phoenix had been allowed to use a cauldron or two -- under close supervision -- several times, he didn't quite have the nerve to ask to borrow one now. That would require explaining what he was up to, which he didn't feel able to do. In the end he sneaked a saucepan out of the kitchen when his mother stepped outside briefly, and stashed it temporarily behind his bedroom door.

“No post this morning,� stated his mum quietly as she re-entered the house, watching carefully for his reaction.

The post! He'd been so absorbed in his own plans that he hadn't considered whether the Hogwarts owls would try again to reach him. But, apparently, they thought their job was done after yesterday's delivery.

“All right,� he muttered, in an equally subdued tone, and finished his breakfast in silence. Never mind today's post: he still had the illegible letter from yesterday, and even though he was fairly sure what was in it, he was determined -- for reasons he couldn't have fully explained -- to have it in authoritative ink for all to see.

Back in his bedroom, he wedged the door firmly closed by jamming his copy of The Tales Of Beedle The Bard into the gap beneath it. He balanced the saucepan, half-filled with water, on an improvised stand made from two other, thicker books. An old saucer, deprived of the candle it usually bore, went between the books, beneath the saucepan. A fierce moment of concentration, a jabbing movement with his wand, and the saucer was filled with soft blue flames: Phoenix Jones, potioneer, was in business.

It seemed to take a very long time for the water to heat. While he was waiting, he took out the flower petals he'd acquired the day before: Bellis Commostrus, the essential ingredient in Defoe's Disclosing Wash. It had been his mum who showed him how to make it, after his dad had helped him with the invisible ink. “Hidden messages, ciphers, or messy handwriting: this'll make them all as plain as could be, if it's brewed strong enough,� she'd explained. “If you're going to play with invisible ink, you'd better know about this, too, in case you write something down and can't remember how to see it again.� He was unsure whether it would work on his Hogwarts letter, but he was going to find out. He didn't dwell too much on his mother's other instruction: “Just don't try making it on your own. It can be very nasty stuff if you get it wrong.� The risk was worth it.

Finally, the water began to boil. Four of the petals went in, one at a time. Then he had to sneak back to the kitchen to obtain some of the other ingredients. It was lucky it had been so wet earlier in the year: his parents would never miss a little of the first rain that fell in spring, and as for dried newt's blood, well, newts weren't really rare, were they? He had only a pen-knife to stir the thin mixture with, but it was the speed and direction of stirring that really counted. Four times widdershins, quickly, then five and three quarters sun-wise, then seven more widdershins. Phoebe Jones hadn't needed to refer to a book for the instructions, and neither did her son.

His mind began to wander. Charlotte had told him that the Potions teacher at Hogwarts was both a strict disciplinarian (“anyone who isn't concentrating on their work gets detention, just like that�) and a hard taskmaster who was difficult to please. He liked to challenge the first-years, apparently, sometimes setting unreasonably difficult potions or entirely unrealistic amounts of homework, just to see how his victims would respond to it. Phoenix found himself wondering how his own efforts would measure up. Would he cope? Could he, perhaps, surprise even such a teacher as that?

Brewing the Disclosing Wash was a slow process, with many colour changes to wait patiently for. Outdoors, it was another fine day: the sunbeams squeezing between the curtains crawled gradually across the top of Phoenix's desk, eventually reaching the smudged letter with its tantalisingly faint quill-strokes. What did that letter say? Did he really want to find out? He was starting to imagine the worst (“...in accordance with the wishes of your parents, your offer of a place at Hogwarts has been withdrawn...� How would he feel if he read that?) and for a moment toyed with the idea of consigning both the parchment and the potion to the compost heap. But he'd invested too much time already for that. No matter what, if anything, the Disclosing Wash might reveal, abandoning the project half-done would make him feel even worse. He had to finish it; somehow, he'd become desperate to know the truth.

At last the moment came. He removed his saucepan from the flame, and allowed its contents to cool. Once he could dip his finger into it without scalding, he took a deep breath, smoothed the letter out on his desk, and applied his creation to it with an old paintbrush. As he did so, the thin, watery fluid seemed to soak into the parchment and vanish, leaving behind firm, clear handwriting in black ink.

Dear Mr. Jones,

It has come to our attention that a Levitation Charm was used in your vicinity the day before yesterday at seven and a half minutes past two o'clock in the afternoon. As you know, underage wizards are not permitted to perform spells outside school, and further spell-casting activity on your part may lead to expulsion from said school. (Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery 1875, Paragraph C). Please consider this a warning, and try to exercise greater restraint in the future.

Enjoy your holidays!

Yours sincerely,

Diogenes Bell
Improper Use of Magic Office
Ministry of Magic.

He stared at the words after reading them. Then he read them again, but they still came out the same way. Diogenes Bell, whoever he was, had stern, no-nonsense handwriting, with dark vertical strokes. Not Hogwarts at all; Hogwarts had, quite possibly, never heard of him. He was on course, in fact, to be expelled from Hogwarts without having ever set foot in the place. Perhaps they'd write to him then. He sat on his bed in the dim room and stared desolately at the curtained window, backlit now by the afternoon sunshine it hid. All at once, the sense of loss became too much to bear, and before he knew it there were tears running down his face, and he was nowhere near Hogwarts; nowhere near any school at all.

“Where have you been all day?� his father asked conversationally, as Phoenix emerged from his bedroom. “Steak and kidney pie tonight,� he went on, without waiting for a reply. He was skilfully overseeing several culinary processes at once: a rolling-pin rolled pastry, two knives chopped carrots and leeks, while Griff himself ensured that the stove was well-supplied with firewood. Phoenix mooched over to the table and sat down. He would just try to make it through dinner, that was all. His dad wasn't endeavouring to talk to him at the moment, being distracted by his cookery, and that was good. He just had to keep staring straight ahead, and not think too much about the day's disappointment.

It was mercifully easy to do. Even when his parents joined him at the table and the family began to eat, his mum and dad seemed content to leave him in peace. His mum did cast a few curious glances at his face -- could she tell he had cried? -- but didn't say anything. Instead, his parents talked quietly to each other about the weather (“If this drought doesn't break soon, the runner beans won't be good for anything...�). Perhaps they mistook his subdued demeanour for acceptance of his home-schooling. Perhaps they were right.

Their plates were almost empty when the interruption came. A series of loud bangs had them all looking around for the cause; only after the third thumping stroke did Phoenix realise that someone was knocking on the front door. His mother got up and went over to the kitchen window, to look out into the summer evening; as she did so, the door quivered with another forceful impact. When she saw who the visitor was, both her gaze and her eyebrows lifted.

“Come in, Hagrid,� she sighed, opening the door. “No need to demolish the place.�

A huge man squeezed into the Jones' kitchen; his black, bushy beard brushed the floor tiles as he bent almost double to fit beneath the lintel. His eyes, which were mostly hidden in a nest of shaggy hair, darted around the room before alighting on Phoenix's dad.

“Griff! Haven' seen you for years an' years! How'd that business with the Bowtruckles work out, then?�

“Not all that well. I tried, but I don't think their hearts were in it, to be honest.� Phoenix's dad looked a bit embarrassed; it occurred to Phoenix that Hagrid resembled a larger, hairier version of him. “Can we offer you a cup of tea?�

“I'll not say no ter that. Milk, an' nine sugars, please.� Hagrid continued to stand; perhaps he realised that he risked crushing any chair he sat on. He fidgeted a bit as Phoenix's mother put the kettle on.

“This is my son, Phoenix,� said his dad, nervously filling the conversational gap. “I expect he's the reason you're here, isn't he?�

“In a manner o' speakin'.� Hagrid reached into an inside pocket of his enormous black great-coat, and extracted a rolled-up piece of parchment. “I'm jus' a messenger, mind --�

“Couldn't the school have replied by owl? That is the conventional method of correspondence.� Phoenix's mum sounded acerbic, but Hagrid didn't appear to notice the tone. Instead, he chuckled.

“An' if the Deputy Headmistress needed remindin', she's had that white one o' yours droppin' inter Hogwarts with one letter after another! Well, yeh needn't worry: she got through all right. Unlike some o' the owls sent ter this address, I bin hearin'.�

There was a brief change in the expression on his dad's face; after a moment Phoenix realised that it was not discomfiture, but relief at the news of Emmy.

“Anyroad,� Hagrid went on, “she told me not ter start arguin' with yeh -- especially not with Phoebe, she was strict on that -- or I'd be here all night. So I'll jus' hand it over.� He flourished the parchment in his hand. Phoenix leaned forward eagerly, ready to take it -- at last! -- only to be disappointed again as Hagrid handed the letter to his mother.

She unfolded it; it was several pages long. “Dear Mrs. Jones,� she began to read aloud. “We acknowledge receipt of your owls of the second, nineteenth, and twenty-seventh of May, the tenth, eighteenth, and twenty-fifth of June, and the sixth and thirteenth of July... Hmm.� She frowned as she read on silently. Phoenix, his dad, and Hagrid watched her intently, Phoenix most of all. Whatever his mother chose to say out loud might be the only parts of this letter he would ever be privy to. “The usual procedure endorsed by the school's governors in such cases is to appoint a Special Admissions Officer -- with capital letters, dear, take note -- to securely ascertain the family's wishes. As if we hadn't made those plain enough already! You may expect the Officer's first visit imminently ... any decision will be subject to sanction by the governors as a board ... all the rest is just bumf.� She looked up at Hagrid. “This Officer isn't you, is it?�

“Nah, I told yeh, I jus' brought the letter. I don' know who it is -- they'll try ter find someone who knows yeh well, probably.�

And that was all they could get out of him. But long after Hagrid had drunk his tea and departed, and the remnants of the meal were polished off and the dishes washed, Phoenix's parents hung about in the kitchen, debating the mysterious letter and speculating on whom the Special Admissions Officer might turn out to be. Phoenix stayed up with them -- they hadn't told him to go to bed -- but he didn't say much. Nothing to get excited about here, he insisted to himself. Hogwarts is just making sure that “the family� -- meaning Mum and Dad, obviously, not me -- means it. As clearly they did; their plans to teach him at home were obviously quite long-standing. Still, he couldn't bear to leave the room while the subject was being discussed.

“They'll find someone who knows us well, he said,� his father was muttering, as he paced about and pulled on his beard.

“They'll have a job doing that,� his mother replied incredulously. “Neither of us has any close relatives any more, not since your mother passed away and your uncles were killed in all the fighting. And we aren't exactly beset by neighbours in this valley, not even if you count the Muggles. Which you wouldn't, of course.�

“Someone we knew at school, maybe?�

“I hated everyone at school. Well, not quite everyone� -- she cast a grateful smile at her husband -- “but there's no-one else who would have much influence with me. And if they were going to choose someone like that for you, they'd have picked Hagrid already.�

Griff sat down again, acknowledging the point with a nod. “Well, if they can't find a friend, they'll use an authority figure, I suppose. It'll be some toff from one of the old wizarding families, who thinks he can tell us what to do.�

His wife didn't look convinced, but she had no better ideas. She looked around exasperatedly, and seemed to notice for the first time that Phoenix was still listening.

“Sides,� said Phoenix quickly, before she could tell him that it was getting late, and that he should be in bed. “The crossword clue, from this morning,� he added in explanation. He'd had it in the back of his mind all day, all through his potion-making and even Hagrid's visit, but the solution had popped into his head only moments ago.

“Cannot be impartially taken -- yes, brilliant. Let's hope so.�

The news that Hogwarts was taking an interest in him after all wasn't any more exciting the next day. There seemed to be a dreadful inevitability about it now: his parents would be consulted, their plans duly noted, and then it would all be official. His fate was untouchable; it was all being decided far away.

Well, Phoenix thought as he washed his face that morning, he still had one card left to play. He had not yet written to Dumbledore. That would be his last hope: if Dumbledore proved as intractable as everybody else seemed to be, then he would give up Hogwarts as a lost cause, and try to dream of other things. Home wasn't such a bad corner of the world, and perhaps he would get a broom for Christmas: then he'd be able to reach the sea, and Muggle towns, even...

After breakfast, he remembered Hagrid's news of Emmy, and checked her usual perch. It was still empty. Was Hogwarts keeping her, or had his parents already sent her somewhere else? Well, it didn't matter. He wasn't going to wait any more; it was time to take matters into his own hands. As soon as he decently could, he let his mother know that he would be at the Williams', and set off down the valley. Charlotte had a long-eared owl by the name of Brunnhilde, and could probably be persuaded to lend her. She would insist on knowing what the message was, of course, and would have to be told the whole story up to and including Hagrid's visit, but that was all right. Knowing Charlotte, she could probably be counted on to be sympathetic.

Even as he left the cottage, dark clouds were gathering in the sky, but Phoenix paid no attention. Others just like them had been blowing by for weeks, without dispensing a drop of rain. As he ambled down the dusty track, he was absorbed instead by the question of what to say to Dumbledore. The detailed letter he'd composed a few days before -- without writing any of it down -- no longer seemed quite appropriate. Even if it hadn't been Dumbledore who had personally dispatched Hagrid, he would already know about Phoenix's case. Wouldn't he? Or should the letter tell the whole story from the beginning, just in case? More importantly, what would be the best way to get the Headmaster on his side? Something like I really, really want to come to Hogwarts just sounded childish. I will be desperately unhappy trapped at home sounded much more convincing -- but wasn't it actually a little bit untrue? Did that matter? He knew Dumbledore only through the pages of a book, and that, he was starting to realise, was insufficient to judge the great man's likely reaction to this sort of letter.

Three or four fat, wet raindrops had splashed against his skin before he noticed them. He looked up, and saw others hitting the cracked and thirsty ground, each one a small dark patch on the surface of the track. A long, ominous rumble of thunder echoed through the hills. It was time to seek shelter, if he didn't want to be soaked. But there were precious few trees along this part of the road; the only possible refuge was with the Evans family, who lived about a quarter of a mile further on. He hurried on anxiously, with school, Dumbledore, his mum and dad, and the thunder-shower all churning in his brain. He couldn't have said precisely why he strode on past the Evans farm gate, instead of turning into it. Perhaps, he told himself, the rain wouldn't last long. Perhaps Mrs. Evans would have looked askance at his wizard's cloak: although she'd seen it before, it wasn't what he'd have chosen to wear in that Muggle house. Or perhaps, a fainter thought suggested, he was just finished with waiting for good things to happen to him. He, Phoenix Jones, was going to send that letter today, and neither the weather nor anything else was going to get in his way.

After another minute or two, the rain intensified. Rivulets were starting to form in the dirt road's tyre-ruts. His bare head was already soaked, plastering his hair to his scalp; droplets were running down the back of his neck and finding their way beneath the cloak. A ferocious, gusty wind had blown up from nowhere, and he shivered with the chill of it. Ahead, forked lightning flashed; moments later the thunder exploded over him. But he'd come too far now to turn back. He tried to concentrate instead on a good conclusion for his letter (“Enjoy your holidays�, the Improper Use of Magic Office had said, but that didn't seem an appropriate sentiment to wish on Albus Dumbledore, somehow), and found that he could barely remember the lines he'd already decided on.

He was as drenched as if he'd been swimming in Llyn Draig, and the woollen cloak, wringing wet through, dragged at every step he took. The heavy rain was now falling so furiously that his eyelashes, as saturated as the rest of him, were unable to keep it out of his eyes, and he could barely see. He tripped over a stone, and in the same moment that he fell to his knees, the dark sky was lit up by a scorching flash; this time, the deafening bang of the thunder was simultaneous.

That lightning bolt practically hit me, he thought apprehensively. It was hard not to believe that someone, somehow, had done it on purpose. He looked back up the valley -- the Evanses would still give him sanctuary, if he asked for it -- before turning resolutely in the opposite direction. He'd set his course. His left knee was bleeding from a cut, but it would keep. At least he wasn't likely to get any wetter.

Under the cirumstances, it was almost miraculous that he was able to see the figure circling him on a broomstick. The rider, hunched over his handle, had apparently decided that no Muggles were likely to spot him in this weather, and hadn't bothered with Disillusionment. He saw Phoenix at almost the same moment that Phoenix saw him, and allowed a strong gust of wind to bear him in for a rather bumpy landing.

He was a tall young man, with large hands and long red hair. Although quite obviously a wizard, he was dressed in shorts, an old red T-shirt with 'Manchester United' on it in white letters, and a broad-brimmed straw hat. His abundantly freckled face looked rather nervous, almost as if Phoenix were a tricky magical creature that would have to be handled with care.

“Bloody hell it's wet!� he exclaimed with feeling, although as far as Phoenix could tell, none of the young man's own clothing was even slightly damp. “Do you need a hand? Hang on� -- he produced a wand from somewhere -- “Impervius!� Instantly, the rainwater that had been clinging to Phoenix's robes and skin sprang off him, as though he were a dog that had shaken itself. And although the rain continued to pelt down, none of the raindrops seemed to be hitting him any more.

“Is your name Jones?� his benefactor asked him, executing an extended series of elaborate wand movements which resulted in a rather feeble stream of hot air from the wand-tip. This was presumably intended to assist with the drying process, although as Phoenix's underclothes were still sodden, the main effect was to leave him feeling rather clammy.

“I'm Phoenix Jones,� Phoenix replied. “Are you looking for my mum and dad, the potion-makers?�

“Phoenix, there's a name with some freight in it,� the red-haired young man mused aloud. “Well, your parents were hardly the only ones who might've wanted to remember Dumbledore, and at least they didn't make it 'Albus Severus'.� He extended his hand. “Ronald Weasley, and it's you I'm looking for. I've already been up to your house, but your mum and dad said you were out, so I've been chasing after you. I'm the Hogwarts Special Admissions Officer. Sorry about the get-up� -- he gestured at his T-shirt -- “the Ministry doesn't have a lot of wizards recorded as living around here, so I thought I'd be dodging Muggles.�

Phoenix shook Mr. Weasley's hand, confused. He hadn't taken all of this in, but there was one pertinent fact he comprehended. “You're this Special Admissions person? Did Dumbledore send you?�

Mr. Weasley chuckled, then looked solemn for a moment. “Well, perhaps in a way -- but no, he didn't send me here today. Dumbledore planned a lot of things before he died, but I won't believe he was planning twelve years ahead. Headmistress McGonagall asked me to come and talk to you. Not a lot of people seem to know your parents, but apparently, I'm one of your closest living relatives, so I got the job.�

“Dumbledore -- isn't Headmaster?� Phoenix's cloak felt cold again. His last chance, gone.

“Not since his death, although I'm told he still keeps a beady eye on things from his old office wall. But hang on, you never knew Dumbledore. What made you think he was still in the job?�

“He's in Hogwarts: A History. I read it ages ago, it was my mum's book...� The depth of Phoenix's misapprehension dawned slowly, ingloriously, upon him. He felt horribly, shamefully, stupid -- why had he never asked Charlotte or Jane about Dumbledore? Whenever they spoke of Professor McGonagall making an announcement, or punishing miscreants, or presenting the House Cup, why hadn't he wondered that Dumbledore did not do these things himself? The printed page, with terrible verisimilitude, had planted the words in his brain: the present Headmaster of Hogwarts is Albus Dumbledore. He had never thought to question them.

Mr. Weasley seemed to find this very funny. “As I often find myself remarking,� -- he was struggling unsuccessfully to hold a straight face -- “a lot of things worth knowing aren't found in books. Sorry, Phoenix. I haven't known many kids who did that much reading before they even got to Hogwarts. Me, I'd just try to ask someone who might know. You'll do well in your studies, I'm sure.�

“Maybe, but not at Hogwarts.� The dry bubble in which he seemed to be standing was an illusion; outside it, the rain was hammering down as hard as ever. “I'm not going there. My parents are going to teach me at home.�

“Really? I thought that was still to be decided. That's more or less what I'm here for, isn't it?�

Phoenix flapped his hands hopelessly. “Mum and Dad are really determined. When you ask them, they're just going to say that I'm better off away from Hogwarts, that they're keeping me here, and that's that. You can't do anything to change things, really you can't.�

“Can't I, indeed?� Mr. Weasley wore an odd, uncertain sort of expression. “Well, no,� he answered himself, “probably I can't. What are your parents thinking?� A sudden thought crossed his face. “You're not a Parselmouth or anything, are you?�

“I don't think so. I suppose I could be.�

Mr. Weasley shook his head. “If you were, you'd know. Well, never mind them, what do you want, Phoenix? If it were up to you, would you be off to Hogwarts, or staying here?�

“Hogwarts, of course�. Impossibility though it was, it took no time at all to say it.

“Hmm. Have you thought about what House you'd like to be Sorted into?�

Phoenix had, although without reaching any definite conclusion. “Ravenclaw, maybe? My mum was a Ravenclaw; she says she didn't like it much, but it sounds all right to me.�

“Play Quidditch at all?�

He shook his head. “There are barely enough wizards living in this valley to make one team, let alone two. The Williamses have a wireless, and sometimes we listen to Harpies matches when they're on, but I've never seen Quidditch played except in pictures.�

“Blimey, you are missing out.� Mr. Weasley seemed more moved by this revelation than by any of Phoenix's other prospects; for the first time, he seemed genuinely sorry for him. “I don't suppose you're any relation to -- but no, of course, you can't be, or it wouldn't be me here.� He paused, and there was an awkward silence for a few moments. “Er - there's one other thing I have to ask you about. I've a note here from some bloke at the Ministry of Magic. Apparently they had to send you a warning letter?�

“Yeah,� Phoenix muttered dully. It didn't matter; none of it mattered any more. “I thought Dumbledore -- I mean, McGonagall -- was writing to me: my Hogwarts letter, you know, offering me a place --�

“I know.�

“But it wasn't, it was because I Levitated a wolf spider, I was just playing with it -- there were no Muggles anywhere near me -- but my parents weren't around, and the Ministry must have noticed--�

Mr. Weasley shuddered slightly. “Some kids play with teddy bears. Well, I can mention those circumstances in my report, I suppose.� He sighed briefly. “I'm afraid to have to tell you that unless your parents have a change of heart, your fate is sealed. That is,� he added hastily, “you'll be schooled at home.�

“They won't. They don't listen to me much when their minds are made up.� Phoenix looked up at Mr. Weasley in one last, hopeless appeal. “This doesn't happen to other wizard kids, does it?�

“Muggleborns get it quite a bit, I'm told.� Mr. Weasley smiled, as if recalling happier things. “But then the Headmistress can just send Hagrid round to sort things out. That happened to a mate of mine; sounded like a right laugh, actually. I'd be useless in a case like that, of course -- I can't knock down doors and stuff.�

“But you're very persuasive, right? You can talk people round?�

“Er -- yeah. I think that's supposed to be the idea.� Mr. Weasley paused, looking a little bit embarrassed. “Cheer up,� he said eventually, “when you're fifteen you'll have OWLs to do; I imagine you'll see the inside of Hogwarts then, one way or another.�

It wasn't much consolation. Nor, even, was the offer of a ride behind Mr. Weasley on his broomstick, or the way the rain seemed to be abating at last. Phoenix just wanted to get home, have the conversation -- a brief one, no doubt -- with his mother and father, and bid farewell to Mr. Weasley and to the unattainable Hogwarts. And then, preferably, go back to bed.

There was one thing he could clear up, though. “Mr. Weasley?� he ventured, as they soared above the Evans farm.

“Yes?�

“What's 'Manchester United'?�

“Something to do with electricity, I think. Most Muggle stuff is.�

“Back already, Mr. Weasley?� remarked Phoebe Jones, as her son followed the Special Admissions Officer through the cottage door. “You found Phoenix, then. Was he at the Williamses'?�

“Please, call me Ron,� said Mr. Weasley. “And I caught up with Phoenix on the road -- just as well, he was getting soaked.�

“He still is!� she exclaimed, rushing over to pat Phoenix's damp cloak. “Couldn't you have used a Drying Charm or something?� She half-raised her wand as if to try a charm of her own, then seemed to change her mind and dispatched Phoenix to find dry clothes instead, while levelling a dirty look at his abashed rescuer.

When Phoenix returned, Ron Weasley was facing both of his parents across the kitchen table. Their conversation was not loud -- he'd have heard it otherwise -- but it was insistent.

“Every parent has the right to school their children at home,� his father was saying. “We confirmed that with the Ministry months ago. Phoenix is our son; his education will be the best we can provide him with. You--�

“Come and sit down, Phoenix,� Mr. Weasley butted in; he seemed glad of the chance to interrupt. Phoenix took a stool, next to his father at the table. This was it, then. Despite his recent drenching, his mouth felt strangely dry, and he wished he had some water to drink.

“I'm not here to change your minds,� Ron was saying. “Your, er, appreciation of your rights is quite accurate. Spot on, in fact. All I've got to do is report your intentions to the school governors. However� -- his expression became uncomfortable -- “Minerva -- that is, the Headmistress -- I hope you'll understand -- she appears to regard the situation as a bit of a personal affront. She asked me -- took the opportunity to entrust me -- to impress on you that Hogwarts has a proud tradition of meeting the needs of all its students.�

“Not this one,� Phoebe interjected grimly.

“It's a brilliant school for everyone, truly -- well, you know that as well as I do,� Ron persisted. “Professor McGonagall told me especially to mention Helga Hufflepuff, and how her House can find a place for anyone, even you, Griff. I mean,� -- he became aware that that last exhortation could have been better phrased -- “you were a Hufflepuff, your son could be as well.�

“You should thank the Headmistress for her concern,� said Phoenix's dad gravely. “Tell her that I am already confident of what my son will be.�

His wife was muttering: “Didn't have a similar suggestion for me, did she? Thought not -- she remembers me too well, I suppose. But it doesn't matter, anyway. They're Houses, not homes.�

“Well, some children do find a sort of home at Hogwarts,� persevered a rather desperate-looking Mr. Weasley, who was evidently under instructions not to give up easily. “Some like it so much, they don't even want to leave at Christmas...� But he'd said the wrong thing again.

“Neglected kids, you mean, who would rather meddle in the Dark Arts than accept the little attention their families can spare for them! You should be familiar enough with that sort, Mr. Weasley!�

“Now, come on, Mrs. Jones,� protested Ron, rather taken aback by this outburst. “That's not fair at all. They don't all go that way--�

“Phoenix doesn't need to go that way,� she insisted. “He has a loving family, quite capable of taking care of him, and you will so report to the authorities. That will be all.�

“Very well,� sighed Mr. Weasley, capitulating all at once. He looked relieved, as though glad to be able to surrender with dignity and retire from the scene. “There's just one more thing the Headmistress asked me to do before I go.� He dug in the pocket of his shorts, and with some difficulty extracted an object that seemed much too large to have fitted in there. It was a dirty bundle of dark grey felt, torn and patched; as he placed it on the table, Phoenix's mum inspected it bemusedly, but his dad stared in astonishment, his fingers in his beard and his mouth slightly open.

The bundle twitched, seemed to stand up, and was suddenly recognisable as a tall, pointed wizard's hat. “I imagine we all know what this is,� said Mr. Weasley, glancing at Phoenix for confirmation.

“Now just you wait a minute, Mister Fancy Special Officer!� Phoenix's mum was more indignant than ever, her voice at least an octave higher than usual. “What on earth makes you think that Phoenix has any business putting that thing on? Have you not been listening to a word we've said? This stops right now -- any more of this nonsense, and we'll be lodging a complaint with the Ministry about your high-handed behaviour, and another about McGonagall and her meddling...�

“Ron.� Griff's firm voice silenced his wife at last. “Mr. Weasley. Explain yourself. What is the Sorting Hat doing here?�

But it was the Hat itself that responded. Opening up a mouth-like rent near its brim, it turned itself to face Phoenix and his father, and began to sing.

What task have I? Who asks to know?
Hear this, my temperate Celt:
The ancient halls of Hogwarts School,
Weren't always where I dwelt.

When I was new I travelled far,
On Godric's noble crown;
We sought out wizards high and low,
In farmstead and in town.

Some we chose for Hufflepuff,
The patient and the true;
But Ravenclaw, she prized great wit:
Perhaps that could be you?

Shrewd Slytherin, he took the ones
Who always wanted more.
And those who dared might win a place
With us, the Gryffindors.

The rest of them, a few, no more,
To Hogwarts would not go.
Theirs was a high and lonely way;
At once I told them so.

A thousand years since then I've sat,
On heads of every kind,
And swiftly, surely, every time,
Their destinies divined.

So fear not that you don't belong,
Or that you'll have me stalled.
If that's your fate, I'll clearly state,
'Not here' or 'Not at all'.

“I don't believe a word of it,� snapped Phoenix's mum as soon as the Hat was silent again. “I never heard such a song before, and I certainly don't remember the Sorting Hat ever sending a child anywhere other than the four Hogwarts Houses.�

“Course you haven't,� said Mr. Weasley cheerfully. “You only heard it at Hogwarts, didn't you? All the kids in the Sorting ceremonies are supposed to be there -- they wouldn't have got letters otherwise.� He sounded pleased, as though previously unknown Sorting possibilities represented some kind of solid ground.

Phoenix's head hurt. What difference did it make whether he was rejected by the Hat, or never allowed to try it on at all? Why couldn't everyone see what was going to happen in the end, and agree not to shout about it so much? A House for people feeling a bit queasy, that would do him fine, as long as his own bed was somewhere in it. He glanced at the Hat: it had fallen over on the tabletop, and become only a misshapen bundle again. No-one else was paying it much attention any more; his mother was alternately insisting that it would be going nowhere near her son's head and denouncing Professor McGonagall in ringing tones, while Mr. Weasley tried to placate her. His father seemed to be staring into space, lost in thought.

Come a bit closer. Was that his imagination, or did the Hat just say something to him? He inspected it closely, but it seemed only a pile of rags, barely fit to wipe the floor with.

That's it. You can reach me from there. And then what? Perhaps if he seized the Hat and jammed it on his head, it would be able to make a pronouncement before anyone noticed? Even though it would get him in deep, deep trouble, it was worth a try. But some intuition told him no, that wasn't what the Hat intended.

His hand stretched out; he touched the ancient, tattered cloth. It was so worn and insubstantial that it would surely fall apart if he picked it up, but there was something inside it. Something long, thin, and hard... without further thought he reached beneath the meagre covering and closed his fingers on cool metal. The object he drew out was a slender silver sword, its hilt decorated with huge rubies. It felt wonderfully light in his grasp; he waved it a little, as if it were a wand, and it shot reflected sunlight through the kitchen.

After a few moments, he realised that the adults in the room were all staring at him. His father was peering confusedly at the sword as if it were a curious botanical specimen he hadn't seen before. His mother glared intensely at it, furiously deducing the implications of its appearance. As for Ron Weasley, his face had broken into a wide grin; he looked as though a holiday had just been declared, and he couldn't have been more delighted.

“That's goblin-made,� Phoenix's dad remarked finally, turning to Mr. Weasley. “What is it? You seem to know.�

“Yeah, I think I recognise it. Phoenix probably does, too, if he remembers the illustrations in Hogwarts: A History.�

Phoenix looked at him, puzzled. “But -- there aren't any illustrations in Hogwarts: A History.�

“Er, well, no, not as such, all right, but still. This is the sword of Godric Gryffindor! I think that gets us out of today's bind, don't you?� He beamed at Phoenix, who smiled weakly back; it didn't seem to him that the appearance of a mysterious sword got anyone out of anything. “I mean, it has a whole legend behind it, doesn't it? The sword can only appear to a worthy Gryffindor in need! By the looks of things, you need it now.�

“Nonsense!� Phoenix's mum was going to take a bit more convincing than that. “It's an Undetectable Extension Charm, is all. You had that sword in the Hat all along!�

“Phoebe.� Griff Jones' voice was still as even as it had been all day, but its overtones hinted that something had changed. “This is ancient magic, not a Muggle conjuring trick. The enchantments on Gryffindor's sword have endured for well over a thousand years; whatever they've wrought here, it deserves some respect.�

His wife turned to look at him. “Well, old and potent it may be, but Phoenix is still our son. We get the final say on what happens to him, whatever the gentleman has up his sleeve.�

“It was Phoenix himself that the sword appeared to, dear...�

More arguing. The wave of delight that had reared inside Phoenix at hearing himself described as a worthy Gryffindor collapsed back into foam. Had anything at all just happened, really? Mr. Weasley was picking up the Sorting Hat and stuffing it back into the pocket of his shorts. He took the shiny sword, too, and sidled quietly over to the kitchen door. Phoenix's parents hardly seemed to notice him leaving, so trenchant was their sudden conversation with each other. After half a minute Phoenix couldn't bear to listen to them any more, and followed Mr. Weasley out.

He was still standing in the garden, broomstick in one hand, ancient magic sword in the other. He smiled at Phoenix.

“My parents had a garden like this,� he remarked, gesturing vaguely at a waist-high patch of nettles. “Still have, although they never used to look after it as well as this. They didn't have the time, with seven kids to run around after. My dad had a Ministry job, too; it used to keep him a lot busier in those days.� He smiled again, remembering. “It must be quite different for you, with your mum and dad at home all the time, and only you to occupy their attention.�

“I s'pose. I just wish we'd get out more.�

“We'll soon fix that. I foresee an expedition to Diagon Alley in your near future.� He hesitated at Phoenix's expression. “You're not still worried about whether you'll get to go, are you?�

“Well, yes. You don't know my mum, she--�

“And you don't know Minerva McGonagall, although you will. When she decides on something, she has this, this knack of making other people see things her way. When she tells you stuff, remember to pay attention.�

“She hasn't taken much interest in me so far.�

“Not entirely true, lad. But only a genuine Gryffindor could have pulled that sword out of the Hat, and that makes all the difference. You belong in Gryffindor, so you must belong at Hogwarts. She won't rest until she gets you there, now.�

Phoenix badly wanted to believe it, but he had suffered too many disappointments in the last few days. The uncertainty must have showed on his face.

“Cheer up,� Ron encouraged him. “Your dad's halfway convinced already, if I'm any judge. It's pretty hard to argue with Godric Gryffindor, after all. And as for your mum, well� -- he faltered for a moment, then struck up again -- “here's what you do. Just make her promise to bring you back the very first time you ask her to. Once she's agreed to that, she can't very well stop you going in the first place, can she? Then you send her an owl a week, going on about how wonderful life is at Hogwarts, and Merlin's your uncle.�

“Does that work?� Phoenix doubted that Mr. Weasley's logic was entirely watertight, but at the same time, he couldn't help but imagine himself writing those weekly letters. He'd be by the fire, in the Gryffindor common room...

“'Course it works. The cleverest person I know told me it worked like a charm on her parents, and they were both dentists.� It was clear from Ron's tone that dentists, whatever they were, had extraordinarily strong opinions on magical education. Just knowing that even they could be persuaded suddenly made his own mother seem much less daunting.

As Mr. Weasley was mounting his broom, a sudden thought seemed to strike him. “Tell you what,� he continued, “I'll get Teddy Lupin to look out for you on the train. With any luck at all, he'll be joining the same House you're in. Nice bloke, you'll like him.�

“Did his parents want to teach him at home, too?�

Ron hesitated, but only for a moment. “Dunno. They might've. He's got plenty of other friends and relatives who know what's what, though; you might see some of them at King's Cross.�

Phoenix thought of remarking what a fortunate boy Teddy Lupin must be, to have so many people concerned for his welfare. Evidently Teddy didn't live in some isolated valley, with only his mum and dad around to make decisions for him. But he didn't want to seem ungrateful, so he kept quiet.

“That's that, then,� Mr. Weasley was saying, as he brandished Gryffindor's sword contentedly. “A fairly straightforward job, in the end. Certainly a lot quieter than the last time I saw this thing turn up on its own. Anything else you'd like me to mention to Professor McGonagall?�

“Thank-you?� It didn't seem adequate, but it was better than nothing.

“Any time.� Mr. Weasley grasped the handle of his broom firmly, took a quick last look around the garden, and accelerated vertically into the freshly cloudless blue sky. And it was still only midday.