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.â€
He hadn't understood at first. –But -- I can't go to any of those foreign wizard schools, can I?â€
–You could,†she'd corrected him gently, –but you won't. We don't want to send you to a wizard school at all.â€
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.â€
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!â€
–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.â€
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?â€
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!â€. 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.