Phœnix Burning, Chapter 1, A Forest Flight

AN: THIS IS NOT SNARRY!

Harry Potter was flying. That, in itself, wasn't unusual; the boy was so adept on a broom that several professional Quiddich teams were considering courting him, if he survived the month. No, what was unusual was that he wasn't on a broom.

It was the first time he was trying out his animagus form outside the Rooms of Requirement, and while the Forbidden Forest wouldn't have been his first choice, he couldn't risk being seen. He wanted to keep this one thing for himself, and for the memory of his dogfather Sirius, and the reporters would never let him alone again once this was discovered. Not that they let him alone much as it was. And while a normal animagus like a mouse or a dog wouldn't be too hard to hide, his particular form was...rather exotic. There would definitely be inquiries if a rare, exotic tropical breed of phœnix were to show up at the exact same time that Harry Potter was missing from his dorm, particularly as said phœnix had green eyes and a patch of pale gold feathers in the exact shape of his famous scar.

Besides, it had to be admitted that the Forest was beautiful...when you weren't tracking injured unicorns, running from acromantula, or trying to fend off a werewolf while helping a convicted murderer escape. It was rather peaceful, even. Harry should have known it was too good to last.

Harry had been thinking that he'd never felt so free. It was liberating to not have to worry about staying on a broom, and the cool, spicy night air fluffed up his pale feathers and brushed lightly over his wings as he soared. Daredevil, impossible dives were easy for him now, and as a phœnix, not even an acromantula would dare attack him, not that it could even if it tried. When he grew tired of flying, he practiced flashing from place to place, here and gone in a burst of unearthly blue fire.

He had just decided to perch and catch his breath when something crashed in the underbrush, and he launched himself off the branch with a startled squawk and landed, ruffled, a few feet away. When the sound was not repeated, his natural curiosity took over and he lifted off again and flew to where the disturbance had originated, landing on a springy branch. A dark shape lay motionless in the dappled shadows, his pale mask showing corpse-white in a band of moonlight. A Death Eater. Harry might have been afraid, except that the Death Eater's robes were plastered to his body with something dark and wet, and his ebony wand lay nearby, snapped; this Death Eater would never hurt anyone again. Harry wondered who it was and hoped vaguely that it was Bellatrix.

Then a rush of morbid fascination overtook him, and he landed noiselessly in the wet leaf mould, changing back almost before his feet hit the ground. Hesitant, ready to run if the Death Eater got up, despite subconsciously knowing he couldn't be a threat, he walked up to the man and knelt, sliding a thin finger under the mask. Then he yanked it off, harder than was probably necessary. And then he stopped dead, the black velvet cord of the mask still wrapped around his fingers. It was Professor Snape.