–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'?â€
–Please, call me Ron,†said Mr. Weasley. –And I caught up with Phoenix on the road -- just as well, he was getting soaked.â€
–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--â€
–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.â€
–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.â€
–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.â€
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.â€
–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!â€
–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--â€
–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.â€
–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...â€
–Ron.†Griff's firm voice silenced his wife at last. –Mr. Weasley. Explain yourself. What is the Sorting Hat doing here?â€
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.â€
–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.â€
–Yeah, I think I recognise it. Phoenix probably does, too, if he remembers the illustrations in Hogwarts: A History.â€
Phoenix looked at him, puzzled. –But -- there aren't any illustrations in Hogwarts: A History.â€
–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.â€
–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!â€
–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.â€
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.â€
–It was Phoenix himself that the sword appeared to, dear...â€
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.â€
–I s'pose. I just wish we'd get out more.â€
–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?â€
–Well, yes. You don't know my mum, she--â€
–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.â€
–She hasn't taken much interest in me so far.â€
–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.â€
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.â€
–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.â€
–Did his parents want to teach him at home, too?â€
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.â€
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?â€
–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.