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 holidaysâ€, 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?â€
–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.â€
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?â€
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.â€
–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?â€
–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.â€
–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.â€
–Really? I thought that was still to be decided. That's more or less what I'm here for, isn't it?â€
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.â€
–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?â€
–I don't think so. I suppose I could be.â€
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?â€
–Hogwarts, of courseâ€. 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?â€
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.â€
–Play Quidditch at all?â€
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.â€
–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?â€
–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 --â€
–I know.â€
–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--â€
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.â€
–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?â€
–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.â€
–But you're very persuasive, right? You can talk people round?â€
–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.â€
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?â€
–What's 'Manchester United'?â€
–Something to do with electricity, I think. Most Muggle stuff is.â€