Apologies for the length of this, but I have been struggling with it for over a year now and just want to push it out and hope that opening up a new word file within the next few days will rekindle my inspiration for this story, which I have actually always intended to finish.

ACCOUNT OF FAWKES

?, PHOENIX

[unintelligible bird sounds]

The beardly thing says that he would like to talk to me, if I would sit down, and would I like another sherbet lemon?

I don't know what I should say to that. When grown ups tell you that they want to talk to you, it's not a question. Even if they ask you, 'Please, Harry, can we have a chat? Would you mind?', what they really mean is, 'Sit down and shut up and listen to me, because I've got something to say to you.' They are big, and you are small, and when the odds are stacked up against you like that, there's really no other way about it.

So, I sit and say completely nothing.

"Severus, if you please." He points to the Black Man, who shows his teeth. "Severus."

The Black Man is younger than this beardly thing. He knows it, the beardly thing knows it. I know it. He sits, too. Next to me. Hands on his lap, fingers tap-tapping on the top of his knees, shoulders pulled all the way to the other side. Away from me. I wonder if perhaps he is allergic to little boy. Aunt Marge says she is allergic to little boy, only Dudley doesn't count, because he's never exactly been little in his life, has he?

"Now," the beardly thing smiles. He's got a wonderful smile, round and cheery, like. The way his lips make a half of a circle over his old, white teeth makes me think of lovely, nice things like Christmas time and Happy Birthdays and songs about things that made someone so happy they had to write a song about it. When I grow up and am a very old man with a beard and a bowl of sherbet lemons, I hope that my smile is like that. "You've been having quite an adventure by the looks of things, Harry, my boy. Quite an adventure. How was it?"

I think a bit. This is not an Uncle Vernon question, which are usually very loud and don't really need an answer. Whatever I say to Uncle Vernon, it is always wrong. It's not an Aunt Petunia question, which is the same as an Uncle Vernon question, only I'm supposed to answer, so that Aunt Petunia can tell me exactly why I am wrong and do not talk back. It's not anything like a Headmistress question, or a school nurse question, or even a Hermione question. The beardly thing's question is so different from any other sort, that I've got to think about it for a minute, at least. And then some more. And then, I wonder, will I be in trouble if I tell him the truth? He is still smiling, and I am a superhero now, after all.

"It was brilliant," I say, smile a bit, suck on my sherbet lemon. "I went on a train, and in a car and a ferry. Was going to have a holiday in France with my friend Hermione, but then he came, so I had to go here instead, and that's all right. I aspose my training is more important than holidays in France, isn't it?"

Now there is quiet.

"Ha," humphs the Black Man.

"Hem," hems the Beardly Thing.

"Isn't it?" I ask again, just in case they've forgot that I asked a question.

The Black Man makes a funny, coughing sort of sound that wakes up the bird sleeping on a perch behind the beardly thing's head. Massive and red and yellow and orange wings unfold. I think, maybe it's a parrot. The King of all parrots. The kind you can't even keep in a zoo because it is so big and kingly and does not enjoy sitting in a cage all day while people like Dudley and Uncle Vernon toss sunflower seeds at it, because you cannot toss sunflower seeds at a king.

No one has said completely anything yet about my training, so maybe they are thinking and will need some time. Time enough for me to see this king of the parrots bird, at least.

"Cool!"

I stand up and make to go back, but the Black Man's hand catches my sore arm before I can make it past his chair, even, and the oldest old man on Earth says quite softly, "Severus!"

His hand falls away, only now he's squeezed my bandage and made the arm do bleeding again. I don't want to sit back down. The glittery, twinkly bit in the old man's eyes falls out like it's run out of glue, and the Black Man with his funny name makes a face like Dudley when he has been told by the dinner lady that no he may not have another piece of cake when he's already eaten three, with the eyes big and the mouth small and the shoulders moving up, down, up, down.

My arm hurts. I want Hermione again and the suitcase and the sky with sun and clouds and seabirds that flap about on the deck, stealing bits and bobs from our sandwiches or eating the crumbs we throw at them to keep them away. I want to go away again. My arm hurts, and I'm tired of all my pieces and such always hurting, and I'm sick of not knowing anybody's name. I want to know somebody's name. I want to see the cool king of parrots bird, eat my sherbet lemon and go back to France. Right, completely now.

But the old man says, "Please let me see your arm, Harry."

So, I show him.

"Ah."

"Headmaster - " begins the Black Man, but the old one is quiet and makes a face with nose and mouth crumpled together like a bit of old drawing paper that someone did a mistake on.

He looks very sad. I think, maybe I can see the king of parrots after all. "I want to see the king of parrots, please," I tell, first very quiet. "Please. And then I'd like to go back to my ferry with Hermione. She says I can sleep in her suitcase at the hotel in France. Please."

But, the old man says nothing.

"Potter - "

"You haven't actually got to feel so bad about my arm. It won't hurt completely anymore if I can see the king of parrots, and - "

Still nothing, only the Black Man says, "Potter."

But, I think I am actually a bit finished with the Black Man and the way he says my name Potter, worse than Uncle Vernon's ever said it even when he was crossest. It's not right the way everyone is always saying my name like it's one of the words Aunt Petunia tells me are off limits to little boys. And it's not right, the way the Black Man just followed me, just tricked me right into jumping into the actual English Channel when I had better things to do, like sleeping in Hermione's suitcase and eating sandwiches and seeing the Eye-ful Tower and such.

"No," I tell him. "No, not Potter. You've only said Potter since you tried to kidnap me in London!" I come close to him, right up to his black clothes what looks like a tablecloth. I make my shoulders stiff and my teeth big. I growl like a dog, "You have kidnapped me from my only best friend in the entire world, and you made me jump into the ocean, and you chased me and called me names and you are hurting my actual arm."

"Severus!" Now the oldest man ever on Earth is standing, very much not like an old man at all.

"No!" The Black Man is standing as well. With his eyes all squinty and small like dog before it bites.

They stare at each other so long, I think I might grow old and die before anybody explains anything to me. Like what I am doing here, instead of being in France, and why this Black Man was chasing me, and what the king of all parrots is really, actually called.

"I'm Harry Potter!"

They are staring at me now. I sit down.

"I'm Harry Potter, and I'm nine and from Magnolia Crescent - that's in Surrey - and I would like to go back to my best friend Hermione in France now, please."

But, the Black Man says, "Potter, what in the name of - "

"I am Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore," says the Beardly Thing. Sits back down. "Professed fan of all things confectionary, enthusiastic wearer of woollen socks, glad to offer you yet another sherbet lemon, Harry, and you may call me "Professor Dumbledore", if you please."

His eyes roll round like little moons behind his glasses, right over to the Black Man, who has crossed his arms across his chest and says, "No."

"Severus."

"No," says the Black Man again. "No, I will not play along with this ridiculousness any longer. I have found the boy for you, Albus, have brought him back to you - unscathed, were it not for his own foolishness! I have done my part, and for my part, I am leaving."

"Severus."

"No."

"Severus, sit down and introduce yourself properly, please, so that I may attempt to answer the rest of young Harry's questions as efficiently and satisfactorily as possible before you take him to the Infirmary for the night."

"No."

"Hm," Professor Dumbledore nods his head up and down, one, two, three. "A very good point. Harry cannot stay in the Infirmary. But, perhaps in one of your rooms..."

"Now - "

My belly just about falls into my knees at that. I say, "Never!" and the Black Man thrusts his fist down into the desk like the Hulk and shouts even louder than I do, "Enough!"

Now, there is quiet. Even the King of Parrots has stopped cleaning himself.

The Black Man steps back away from the desk; I think, I know why his eyes go from there to Professor Dumbledore and back and forth and back and forth. He pulls his shoulders back into his neck, and I know he's afraid of the loudness in his own voice and the slam from his own fist, because the problem with slamming your fist round into things like the Hulk is that only the actual Hulk is allowed to do it. The Black Man tries to look angry, but he is small. I wonder what his Uncle Vernon is called and if he's as fat as mines.

"Phineas," says Professor Dumbledore. For all of about a minute, I think he's just sneezed, and I want to say 'bless you', but then another voice pipes up from who knows where.

This other voice is old and crackled and sharp like Piers Polkiss's grandfather's, who is always knocking on everyone's knees with his cane and shouting things into the street at us like, "Keep your ears on, you rascal, you old rat!" and "Don't look the dogs in the eyes, sonny, they're a load of thieves, to the last man!" when he comes to call.

This voice, who is not the Black Man or Piers Polkiss's grandfather or anyone at all, comes from a painting behind Professor Dumbledore's head, and he says, "If you want a favour, you will have to try somewhere else."

"Would you please - "

"Our office is closed."

"Phineas, inform Minerva of the arrival of Mr Potter," says Professor Dumbledore loudly. "And request of her that she find a discreet compartment somewhere in the castle for our guest to spend the night in. He will be waiting for her at the top of my staircase - " his eyes roll over to my forehead, staring right through it and down into my eyes, which I'm sure have just about told him everything there is to say about me, " - with an abundance of patience and charm, of which I am certain he possesses."

Before I have a chance to find out what he means, the door is open, and I am standing in front of it with a handful of sherbet lemons and the King of Parrots at my side.

Professor Dumbledore says, "Fawkes will keep you company while you wait, Harry, if you would be so kind." and closes the door in my face.