I hear he’s fussy with his food and eats his breakfast in the nude.
Whatever doubts you may employ, he’s England’s pride and joy.
He’s plucky in his tricks, he’s lucky with the chicks.
Who is that blasted Phoenix?
It was amazing how good for business this Order of the Phoenix thing was. All of the shaken refugees stumbling into La Tête Du Porc were desperate for a drink, and Aberforth was all too happy to cater to them. He’d made more money since coming to France than he had in all of his years in the Hogs’ Head.
The only bad part was having to work more. One of these days, he’d find a clever way to get around that little obstruction, and then he’d have it made.
The little bell on the door jingled as a skinny man with a dark ponytail trudged inside and collapsed into a chair, which promptly broke. The skinny man gave out a little high-pitched screech, then sheepishly got up and edged toward a rather sturdier-looking barstool.
“Sorry about that,” he said to Aberforth, shrugging, then paused. “PAR-lay voo Ang--”
“Can’t you read the sign?” demanded Aberforth, pointing crankily at the large, badly-spelled sign over the bar reading, ABSALUTLEY NO SAYIN PARLAY VOO ANGLAYS IN THIS PUB OR ELSE. “Look, I’m Aberforth Dumbledore, I worked at the Hog’s Head, my high-and-mighty brother made me come here, I don’t speak French. Do I have to go through this with everyone who comes through this door?”
The man gave him a jittery smile. “Well, I’m sorry, only I’m a little shaken up. Would you believe I””
“Let me guess,” said Aberforth, his voice dryer than his pub had been during Prohibition. “Phoenix rescue?” He snorted. “Just like everyone else in this room. Well, ‘cept me.”
The man looked very intimidated. He was a small, bandy-legged, clean-shaven youth, just the kind of kid Aberforth would have pushed into a vanishing cabinet at school. “It was a big deal for me,” he muttered, staring into his lap.
“Look, let me get you a drink,” said Aberforth.
“Oh, no, I don’t drink alcohol,” said the young man. Aberforth threw up his hands in irritation. He deserved to be paid a lot more than the cost of a drink for having to look at this soppy kid, and he wasn’t even going to buy anything?
The young man brightened. “Anyway, I’m Raphael Smitts.” He held out his hand for a handshake.
Aberforth rolled his eyes. “If you really want to catch all the goat diseases I’m a carrier for, be my guest.”
Predictably, Smitts withdrew his hand, but he didn’t stop talking. He leaned in closer to Aberforth, smelling of lavender. Aberforth was of the great belief that this was highly unnatural. The only herb that real men should smell of was garlic. “Anyway,” Smitts said in what he probably thought was a shrewd voice, “so, you’re in the Order of the Phoenix, huh?”
“Unfortunately, yeah. Unfortunately for me, and for everyone else in it. But they’re paying for the booze I sell, so that’s twice as much money for me, and I can’t complain.” Aberforth glared, and continued in what actually was a shrewd voice, “But if you want to know anything about the Phoenix, I can’t tell you. They think I’m not trustworthy. Probably ‘cause I’m not, but ehhhh.”
Smitts’s eyes widened. “Wow! They don’t even tell everyone in the Order who the Phoenix is!” he gushed loudly. “I think that the Phoenix is secretly an undercover Death Eater.”
“I heard she’s a woman!” yelled someone from a nearby table.
A big man laughed. “No, sorry, I got a note from him. Definitely a bloke’s handwriting.”
“Yeah, it’s the guy who runs Honeydukes.”
“Everyone knows the Phoenix is a vampire. That’s how he can get from place to place so fast.”
“But vampires are evil!”
“Yeah, but ten houses in one night? He’d have to be Father Christmas if not a vampire.”
Aberforth’s glare turned into something more like a Death Ray. “Now see what you’ve started,” he hissed, knocking over a glass in anger. Smitts didn’t even flinch, which was most unsatisfying. “Now everyone’s gonna start running around calling everyone and his brother the Phoenix.”
“Oh, they already are,” said Smitts in a curiously grave tone. “Like yours.”
Aberforth cocked a bushy eyebrow. “I know you’re an idiot, son, but now you’re a blibbering idiot. What on goat’s green earth are you talking about?” Smitts blanched, and he began stammering incoherently. This wasn’t such an unusual thing in Aberforth’s pub, but not for people who hadn’t drunk a great deal of alcohol. “What is it, boy?” he demanded. “Spit it out!”
“I… I thought you knew,” stuttered Smitts. “Y-your brother’s been arrested. For being the Phoenix.”
Albus Dumbledore sat calmly in his chained chair in the Wizengamot, his long-fingered hands folded in his lap and his half-moon spectacles perched low on his nose. “Ah,” he said pleasantly. “So I understand I’m to be sent to Azkaban?”
The brutal-faced Death Eater who now headed the Wizengamot after Voldemort’s coup in the Ministry did not smile. “Yes.”
“Oh dear,” Dumbledore sighed. “I don’t remember there being a law against saving lives when I was the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot. I’m afraid I’m behind the times. Age makes even the best of men foolish.”
The brutal-faced Death Eater banged his gavel, as though fantasizing that it was smashing the top of the old man’s head. “Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, alias The Phoenix, you are found guilty of treason and will spend twenty-five years in Azkaban.”
“Is that so?” asked Dumbledore mildly. He pulled something out of his pocket and began to fiddle around with it absentmindedly.
Instantly, everyone in the room leapt to their feet. “He has a wand!” yelled a man at the back of the room, ducking.
Dumbledore chuckled. “No, no, this is a sherbet lemon, which is a sort of sweet and not dangerous at all, except for possibly causing dental trouble. I don’t quite see how it can be confused with a wand.” He paused and drew something else out of his pocket. “This is, in fact, my wand,” he continued serenely.
Everyone in the room leapt to their feet again, except for the man in the back of the room, who was shielding himself with the rather large woman in front of him.
Slowly and deliberately, Dumbledore raised his wand… and handed it to the brutal-faced Death Eater.
“To Azkaban I must go, then,” he said in a calm, matter-of-fact voice. “I trust I’m allowed a toothbrush. Incidentally, would anyone else care for a sherbet lemon?”
The Death Eaters in the Wizengamot squinted confusedly at each other. Dumbledore always had a trick up his sleeve, no exceptions. They weren’t expecting him to come quietly. What was he planning? He’d simply walked out of his house when the Death Eaters arrived to take him by force. He’d handed his wand over. He’d allowed himself to be taken to Azkaban. He’d admitted to being the Phoenix. How could he let himself be captured so easily?
Dumbledore smiled to himself. Each House, he’d realized, had its merits and its downfalls, and Slytherin was too crafty for its own good. The Death Eaters never would realize that not having a trick up his sleeve was the best trick of all.
“DUMBLEDORE?” squawked Lily, and then, because she still couldn’t believe it, shouted again. “DUMBLEDORE? He can’t be the Phoenix! I mean… DUMBLEDORE?”
James paused in pulling on his dress robes. “Why are you yelling ‘Dumbledore’ so much?” he asked. “I mean, I know, it’s a really cool name… sometimes I just like to yell ‘pudding…’”
Lily stared at him. Did James just live in his own little world all day long, a world where everything was happy and perfect and innocent? Did he never listen to the Wizarding Wireless or read the Daily Prophet? “James,” she said slowly, “haven’t you heard? Dumbledore’s been arrested for being the Phoenix. He’s going to be in Azkaban for twenty-five years.” She was shaking with rage. “He’s an old man! He can’t be the Phoenix! And he probably won’t live for twenty-five more years.”
She flopped down on her bed, feeling horrible. She was not in the mood to go to the Oggs’ party, especially since her one aim in going there was in proving that Remus was the Phoenix. Now, it was proven that Dumbledore was the Phoenix… but he couldn’t be…
“James, can you imagine the wizarding world without Dumbledore? Hogwarts without Dumbledore? How can he let them catch him like this?”
James shrugged slowly. “Love a duck, he’s Dumbledore. He’s always got something up his sleeve. He’ll be fine.” He smiled. “Can’t believe I didn’t see it was Dumbledore before! I mean, he’s got a Phoenix.”
Lily kept staring at him, hoping that he’d rip off his James Potter mask and shout, “SURPRISE! It’s me, an escaped loony!”
“You can’t escape from Azkaban,” she said. “Nobody has. Even he’s not perfect.” She sighed. “I really don’t want to go to the party.”
James squinted. “But why?”
Lily’s mouth flopped open. Did he hear himself? Did he hear her? Albus Dumbledore had been arrested for being the Phoenix. Dumbledore was gone AND the Phoenix was gone, two of the only people who had given her hope lately. How could she want to celebrate?
“Hey, isn’t it good to do fun stuff when you feel bad?” James asked, rubbing her back. “Let’s go to the party. It’ll take your mind off it. Come on, I have a can of nuts with a rubber basilisk that jumps out at you when you open it. I can’t let a trick like that go to waste.”
“Maybe it’ll take YOUR mind off of it!” shouted Lily, unable to take it anymore. “You’re incredible! You’ve got the mind of a little kid! None of this stuff even matters to you… all you care about is having fun! It’s like you don’t know there’s a world around you, and that that world really, really stinks!!!”
As soon as the words left her mouth, she wished she hadn’t said them. James gaped, and for a moment, his face was full of shock and hurt. He looked unbelievably young, like an innocent child who had just been told that there was no Easter Puffskein.
Wow, said Lily’s conscience, who she’d decided to name Katie after her editor. You’ve reached new lows.
I know, thought Lily. I can’t believe I yelled at James like that. He looks like he’s about to cry.
Oh, not that, Katie said. “You just used eight exclamation points… three in a row. How could you?
Lily stared back at James, and neither of them spoke for what seemed like forever. Babies were born, old men died, a cat cried out in the distance (probably because someone threw another rock at it), a tree fell in the forest, and Mrs. MacGinnis next door yelled at her creepy son for bringing more dead polecats into the house.
“I’m sorry,” Lily said at last. “I… I didn’t mean that.” She flinched. She hated being dishonest, and the truth was, she did mean it. She just hadn’t meant to say it.
James looked deep into her eyes. “Do we have any cans of turkey chili lying around?” he asked. “Because that stuff is really good.”
He hopped off the bed and left the room, making his way downstairs, leaving Lily mouthing wordlessly at thin air. She couldn’t believe him, she really couldn’t. Her mother had been right when she’d said that marriage was a new adventure everyday, but it was the kind of adventure where you got lost in the overgrown tangles of brush, got your provisions eaten by hippos, got devoured alive by mosquitos, caught malaria, and ended up tied to a spit at a pygmy camp. James never ceased to amaze her with his unbelievable shallowness and infinitesimal attention span.
Lily was all for trying to look on the bright side, trying to keep her spirits up in dark times. But there were limits. It wasn’t always best to smile and get on with life.
Suddenly, she remembered. Just a few days after her wedding, Lily had been sitting in the hotel room, lying back on the bed, and James had been sitting at the table, staring at the Daily Prophet. She remembered exactly how he’d looked, curiously rigid and cold, as though he was some sort of ancient ice mummy. His eyes had been dark, and his expression had been one of anger and fear and sadness all at once. He’d crumpled up the newspaper and reduced it to dust with a spell.
“James,” Lily had said playfully, using a criminal amount of exclamation points, “don’t worry about the news! This is our honeymoon! Relax! Have some fun!”
She laughed bitterly. It looked like James had taken her advice.
Was he angry with her? Had he been so serious about what he was reading in the newspaper, so offended by Lily’s suggestion that he lighten up, that he would act like this happy, mindless idiot to prove to Lily that she’d been insensitive?
Or was he truly trying to make her happy? Did he really think that as the man of the house, what she wanted was to feel secure, unworried by the atrocities going on in the world? That she wanted him to make her life an endless stream of blissful ignorance?
Life was complicated enough without having to worry about James. Maybe she was overanalyzing, as always. Maybe James had just changed, absorbed himself so much in his work at Zonko’s that he truly didn’t care about anything but a good laugh anymore.
At least, she thought darkly, he was comic relief. She wasn’t getting much of it lately.
Dumbledore was the Phoenix. It was ridiculous, it was unbelievable, and it was true. Snape kicked at a large rock on the street in front of him, and immediately wished he hadn’t. It was the kind of rock too large for kicking. He heard his toe bones crack.
Snape didn’t wear socks, and so a miasma of odor surrounded him as he sat down and pulled off his shoes to check his toes, but he was too deep in thought to notice the smell. Besides, he was used to it.
Dumbledore was the Phoenix. Desiderius Cairnwright had come to the conclusion, something about tracking owls to the Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix, something about Dumbledore receiving mail… He’d admitted to being in charge of the Order of the Phoenix.
It was unbelievable, but Snape felt… sad about all of this. He was a Death Eater; he should be rejoicing about the capture of the Phoenix. But Dumbledore… Dumbledore had always been the person he’d respected most when he’d been a student at Hogwarts. Unlike that stupid, fawning Slughorn, Dumbledore had seemed to genuinely understand Snape’s talents.
Snape had never liked Dumbledore”he made such a show of being all twinkly and grandfatherly and light-hearted, when clearly it was all just an act. And even worse, he hated the Dark Arts, always acted all… concerned and disappointed that Snape found them fascinating. As if Dumbledore hadn’t once been interested the Dark Arts. Someone as intelligent as he was couldn’t go without being drawn to power.
But Snape, who didn’t much like anyone, couldn’t deny the fact that Dumbledore was quite possibly the most powerful wizard alive, and he had to appreciate that. Someone like him couldn’t just go to jail.
It wasn’t Dumbledore, though, that really bothered him. It was the fact that that stupid coward Desiderius Cairnwright had caught him. It was unbelievable. And… if he was already caught, then Lily Evans… Lily Potter wouldn’t be able to do it.
There was nothing that could be done. Lily would die. Snape felt a strange sensation twist his guts, something quite like an amazingly large, slimy worm crawl up his oesophagus.
Lily hadn’t spoken to him civilly since fifth year, just for one little slip of the tongue. He’d called her a Mudblood. Big deal. But… the thing was… even a tiny part of Snape had to admit that it was a very big deal indeed. The Dark Arts were one thing. They were interesting. Muggles… well, Muggles were just stupid, his own father was living proof of that. But he couldn’t understand what was wrong with perfectly intelligent, capable witches and wizards of Muggle stock. Lily was amazingly talented… and very beautiful, of course. He was supposed to hate her because her parents were Muggles, but she wasn’t a Muggle. She was just as magical as he was. It didn’t make sense, and he didn’t hate her.
In fact, he loved her.
Snape felt his neck tense so much that his head nearly exploded. There was absolutely no way he’d thought that. All right, he thought about her all the time. Who wouldn’t? She was in danger. They’d been friends once. Of course he felt guilty. Of course he wanted to save her. That didn’t mean he loved her, just that he felt responsible for Voldemort planning on killing her.
He’d liked her in school. He hadn’t known many girls. He’d grown up. He was over it. He wasn’t one to draw hearts on his parchment and sing love songs in the shower. This was mainly because he didn’t shower, but that wasn’t the point.
Love was for stupid people, people who didn’t have any other way to occupy their time and brain power, shallow, hormonal people obsessed with physical appearance and… that other thing. Lily was very attractive, of course… he could stare at her forever… that didn’t mean anything. It was ridiculous. Voldemort had said hundreds of times that there was no such thing as love, that it was useless.
But he remembered what it had been like when she’d called him her best friend. They’d laughed so much. He couldn’t remember laughing in a long, long time. Well, derisive snorts at others’ expense all the time, but that didn’t really count. He remembered talking to her every day, and how important he’d felt.
When he’d begged Voldemort to keep Lily and her family alive if she would turn in the Phoenix, he’d seen what he what he was doing as saving Lily’s life, rescuing her. He wanted her to live.
It was as simple as that. He didn’t want to keep her alive so that he could “have” her, like she was some kind of gift he wanted to buy. He realized that there was no way she’d come leaping into his arms shouting, “My hero! Why did I want that James idiot, anyway? Have I mentioned that I find gigantic zit-covered noses incredibly sexy?” He was realistic. He’d seen the look of disgust on her face, heard the hate in her voice when he’d spoken to her at the Diggorys’.
He… cared about her, he could admit that much. The idea of her being happy and safe made him… well, not happy. The words ‘happy’ and ‘Snape’ did not go together. ‘Happy’ went on the list of other unSnapely words like ‘shampoo’ and ‘lederhosen’ and ‘kitten’ and ‘lollipop’ and ‘karaoke’ and ‘tango-dancing with Lily under the moonlight wearing matching Gothic-Victorian costumes.’
Ack. He had to stop thinking about that last one, really. But all he knew was that Dumbledore had been caught, and Lily would die. It was hard enough not talking to her anymore… he didn’t know where he would be if he knew he would never be able to again.
It would be worse than shampoo, that was for sure.
Where’s the girl who was burning for life
I can still feel her breathing beside me…
Come again, let the girl in your heart tumble free
Bring your renegade heart home to me.
In the dark of the morning, I’ll warm you, I’ll rouse you…