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? –Circumstancesâ€, or –situationâ€? Should he refer to Hogwarts' –reputationâ€, or –prestigeâ€, or would either be too pretentious? What was he seeking: –assistanceâ€, or –aidâ€? 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?â€
–Outside. He was up early, and, ah -- wanted to get started on the garden.â€
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.â€
–Half the day, perhaps. Later on I'm going to pull out a couple of the Mandrakes, so keep your earmuffs handy.â€
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!â€
–Thanks. No harm in staying in practice.â€
–What was that letter?â€
–Just another offer of something we don't need. Feel like giving me a hand with this garden?â€
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?â€
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?â€
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?â€
–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.â€
–Well, what if I don't want to be different? I want to go to Hogwarts with everybody else.â€
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.â€
That was a bit hard to swallow. –There's nowhere better than Hogwarts!â€
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.â€
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!â€
His mother turned back to the meat; for a few moments he could only hear her muttering –Diffindo! Diffindo!â€. 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.â€
–All right, but what are you protecting me from? It's just school! What are you so worried about?â€
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.â€
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?â€
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!â€
–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 --â€
–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.â€
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.