Word On A Wing: Chapter 1.

Hello old and new readers! This is a rewrite of my 16k word story by the name of Rebirth... this version is considerably longer: I have about twelve pre-written chapters, so you can expect about three months worth of updates. I wrote this story listening to Leonard Cohen's You want it darker (okay and Jumping at shadows by Fleetwood mac on repeat on rainy days). It was the last album he wrote and produced shortly before his death... and holy shit you can certainly hear that he was aware that he was close to death. In any case, check it out if you want... I feel that a lot of the atmosphere and general vibe on the album was somehow projected onto this story. So be warned: a lot of existential reflection.

(also story named after a song on the Station to Station album by David Bowie)

Also I haven't written anything seriously for about half a year, so my English is not up to scratch. Please forgive me.

They stood in a silence as icy as the ground beneath their feet. To the side, a gnome that Harry had been watching had finally managed to extricate his worm and was now sucking on it happily, leaning against the bottom-most branches of the rhododendron bush in the Weasley's back garden.

Harry stood here with the Minister for Magic, morosely attempting to steer the conversation away from politics and in specificity, himself.

"What is Dumbledore up to?" said Scrimgeour brusquely, when Harry didn't reply to his last question. "Where does he go, when he is absent from Hogwarts?"

"No idea," said Harry. Technically, he didn't really know where he went, although Dumbledore sometimes told him why he had been wherever he'd been. Searching for a way to defeat Voldemort was the most recent version of events.

"And you wouldn't tell me if you knew," said Scrimgeour, "would you?"

"No. I wouldn't," replied Harry, secretly liking the way Scrimgeour visibly deflated - like cat that had been denied catnip — or Dudley a piece of candy from Petunia.

"Well, then, I shall have to see whether I can't find out by other means." The man said in a defeated tone. Harry eyed him shrewdly, obviously he was now attempting to guilt-trip him, or at least emotionally manipulate him.

"You can try," said Harry indifferently. "But you seem cleverer than Fudge, so I'd have thought you'd have learned from his mistakes. He tried interfering at Hogwarts. You might have noticed he isn't Minister anymore, but Dumbledore's still Headmaster. I'd leave him alone, if I were you."

There was a long pause as a number of different emotions played out on the Minister's face. Harry smirked inwardly, the man was ridiculously easy to read - it was a wonder he had become the Minister for Magic at all. Then again, he was a former head auror and would not have become Minister in the first place, if not for his murdered superiors.

"Well, it is clear to me that he has done a very good job on you," said Scrimgeour, his eyes cold and hard behind his wire-rimed glasses. "Dumbledore's man through and through, aren't you, Potter?"

Harry didn't hesitate to answer him, "yeah, I am. Glad we straightened that out."

With that, he turned his back on the Minister for Magic, and strode back the way he had come. The snow crunched beneath his feet but he paid it no mind. Glancing upwards, and straightening out his glasses, he noticed most of the Weasley family was glued to the windows that looked out into the front yard, obviously trying to see what was happening. Harry pretended not to notice, and instead made his way to the quidditch pitch. He needed to think and the Quidditch place was always the perfect spot for that.

He stalked up to the nearest quidditch hoop and pulling himself up, managed to climb up to the highest one. His arms ached, but he paid that no mind as he watched the sun settle behind a row of trees. Harry had never feared heights, but seeing how far down the rock-hard ground was, frightened him slightly.

He could see the Minister finally bypass the gate leading to the Weasley's house. He spun on his heel and disappeared with a loud crack.

Harry's conversation with Scrimgeour had been an eye-opener - this war was becoming increasingly more political and that made Harry anxious. He had always detested politics.

Politicians were liars - professional liars - who loved to coerce, blackmail and suck up to people to achieve their personal goals. As far as he saw it, he was safer with Voldemort than with that pack of hyaenas.

Harry ruffled his hair and the snowflakes that hadn't yet melted, fell to the ground. These last few months had been odd. There had been an increasingly strong feeling of foreboding growing in the pit of his stomach. Something was going to happen soon, something bad, something worse than Voldemort.

Harry shook his head, trying to clear his mind of those oppressive thoughts. He never managed to, as a gust of wind suddenly caught him and easily blew him off the hoop - much like the snowflakes that he had shaken off moments ago. He hit his head on the icy ground beneath the blanket of powdery snow and he knew no more.

.

This was a vision, he was sure of it.

Harry blinked as he looked around… this wasn't right. It was winter, not summer… yet as he stared around him, Harry noticed that he appeared to be in a small village with miserable, small huts made out of old wood. Most houses had a small fence around the back with an assortment of farm animals. The air smelled of them too.

The sun shone brightly above his head, making his skin itch a little.

Harry blinked rapidly, this wasn't a normal vision. Usually whenever he had one, he experienced everything through Voldemort's or Nagini's eyes, he saw things clearly, but not as clearly as now, and he certainly didn't feel the sun on his face and skin. He didn't smell scents either.

Harry sighed, and was forced to conclude that this wasn't a Voldemort induced vision. After all, he was sure Voldemort hadn't lived during the medieval era - and this was most certainly that moment in time… judging by the state of the village.

Gazing about in confusion, he suddenly caught sight of a young boy - perhaps six or seven - clutching his knees to his chest as he hid in the shadows of a house. He was dressed in loose, worn, threadbare trousers and a tunic. A rope was tied around his waist to keep his trousers up.

Taking pity on the obviously poor boy, he approached him and suddenly wondering whether this vision was a vision at all, he poked the boy, and found that his finger sailed right through his shoulder. Frowning, Harry gazed at him more intently.

Now that he had come closer, Harry could see that the boy was staring at his hands, amazement, anguish, terror and bafflement swirling in his eyes.

The boy reached down next to him and plucked the bud from a flower. He cupped his hands around it and blew on it. Unexpectedly, he bud began to open, revealing an entirely common dandelion.

Harry stared at the exhibit of magical power. Accidental magic was common with children - hell, he'd experienced a lot of it - but a child who could control his accidental magic wilfully!? Unheard of!

There was a sudden shout and both the boy and Harry raised their heads to the direction from which it was coming. A woman was advancing on the little boy. She was smiling widely, until she saw the little bud blossoming in the boy's hand. Harry was half-expecting her to blow up in a murderous rage, but instead she gasped and covered her mouth as she gave a laugh of joy.

"You have Magic!"

The boy looked up at her, grinning. He jumped to his feet and ran to hug his mother. The woman kneeled down and pulled him away from her hips. She cupped his face in her hands and gave him a long and loving look. She kissed him on the forehead.

"Hunith!" another voice called. Both the boy, Harry, and the woman — Hunith — glanced up to see a long-bearded man of a similar age to the mother approaching them. He was dressed equally as poorly as the boy, but there was a pride and honour about him that many well-dressed men did not have.

"Father!" the boy exclaimed, running to him. He extended a hand with the dandelion. For a moment the father did not seem to comprehend, but then he blinked and saw that the flower was still blossoming. He took it into his own hands in a reverent fashion.

"Magic has selected our little boy?" He whispered with awe to his wife.

"Emrys was always destined for great things, Aurelius," Hunith whispered back. Harry had always associated the name Aurelius with Romans, so he was surprised to hear it here, in this evidently very historical setting. Then again, the Romans had invaded Great Britain a while ago. And indeed, the father did have some characteristics typical to the Romans.

"Harry?"

The other villagers were beginning to approach the little family unit, gasping with awe and appreciation when it was passed on to them what had just happened.

"Harry!"

A clan-leader, by the look of his walk and talk, had arrived and made an odd sign in the boy's direction. It looked like a sort of recognition of honour of sorts, but Harry's vision was beginning to blur and it was getting a little hard distinguishing faces.

"He's waking up!"

Harry's eyes fluttered open and it took him a moment to orientate himself. He was lying on the longest sofa in the Weasley's living room, a cushion had been placed under his head, and his feet were being held up by someone. It was then, that he suddenly became aware of the spiking pain at the back of his head.

Groaning, he raised his hand to the back of his head. It was wet. Groaning again, Harry examined his fingers — they were tainted with his blood.

"Oh, Harry! We were so worried!" Exclaimed Hermione - she was kneeling next to him and holding his left hand. Ron was holding his legs up. Mrs Weasley was fluttering about him, casting a spell on his head to heal the wound and simultaneously arranging the pillow.

"Honestly, Harry? What were you thinking, sitting up there?" Mrs Weasley cried as she gently brushed his hair out of his face. "You are more of a danger to yourself than You-Know-Who!"

Two twin laughs were heard from the corner of the room and upon glancing in their direction they each gave an identical wave. George winked at Harry.

Harry smiled. Their concern was heartwarming, if a little excessive. "I'm alright. Honestly."

He jerked his feet out of Ron's grip and and they dropped on the couch.

"Mrs Weasley already healed your skull, but you still have a concussion." Hermione said quietly, letting go off of his hand and standing up. Ron patted his shoulder.

"Yeah, we were all pretty worried. Mum even wanted to get you to St Mungo's."

"I'm sure it wasn't that bad."

"You cracked your skull." Ginny, who was leaning against an armchair with her arms crossed, said in a rather blunt tone. Harry winced.

"But I'm fine now. See, I can stand up." To prove his point, Harry stood up only to feel a wave of nausea hit him. He fell back down on the sofa and grimaced.

"Ok. Maybe not so fine."

"Oh, Merlin's beard, you're so stubborn!" Ginny exclaimed and vanished up the stairs.

Mrs. Weasley, who had disappeared a few moments ago, returned, carrying two vials clutched in her hand, in the other, she carried a cup of freshly made tea.

.

It was a few nights later - the night before they were supposed to go back to Hogwarts, when it happened again.

He had been in bed, when suddenly an odd squashing feeling, which sort of resembled apparition, had engulfed him.

This time, he was standing on a road leading up to a large, medieval castle. It felt and looked very familiar as though he had seen it somewhere else. Actually, it looked quite a lot like Hogwarts, except that the gothic turrets were missing.

Harry instinctually tried to slide between people rushing to the castle, but found after a few moments that he was just like a ghost in the sense that people seemed to walk straight through them. Looking around, Harry was amazed at how much hygiene and style had changed over the years. It was at that moment - while he was ogling the peasants around him, that he caught sight of a boy his age.

He had stopped walking and was staring up at the castle, transfixed. A small smile played on his lips and as Harry caught sight of his emerald eyes, he realised with shock that it was the same boy he had seen in his first vision. The boy - young man now - was of medium height, but his lean body made him look taller than he was.

A tunic - one similar to the one he had worn in his childhood - was hanging loosely over his body. He was walking alongside a few other similarly-dressed young men. They were pushing each other around, and laughing joyfully.

"Oi! Don't just stand there!" A nasty voice said, and suddenly the wizard was shoved to the ground. The large woman in question stumbled past him, carrying a large haystack on her shoulders. The young man's yes narrowed.

Harry watched, transfixed, as the laces of her leather boots tied themselves together and she toppled to the ground. Wandless magic! This wasn't just accidental magic - not anymore… this was consciously-done wandless magic!

"Oi! Emrys, you promised your mother you wouldn't cast magic outside of the clan! Especially not in Camelot — it's punishable by law here!" one of the young men whispered to the boy who Harry now knew to call Emrys.

"And you promised your father you wouldn't drink until you were sixteen summers old," Emrys pointed out with a sly smile as his gaze rested on the leather flask that the other boy was occasionally sipping some sort of beverage from. He didn't even have the grace to look ashamed.

Emrys smiled in delight and they all continued making their way up to the castle.

.

Late in the afternoon the next day, Harry, Ron, Ginny and Hermione lined up beside the kitchen fire to return to Hogwarts. The Ministry had arranged this one-off connection to the Floo Network to return students quickly and safely to the school. Only Mrs Weasley was there to say goodbye, as Mr Weasley, Fred, George, Bill, and Fleur were all at work.

Mrs Weasley dissolved into tears at the moment of parting. Admittedly, it took very little to set her off lately; she had been crying on and off ever since Percy had stormed from the house on Christmas Day with his glasses splattered with mashed parsnip (for which Fred, George and Ginny all claimed credit).

"Don't cry, mum," said Ginny, patter her on the back as Mrs Weasley sobbed into her shoulder. "It's ok…"

"Yeah, don't worry about us," said Ron, blushing as his mother placed a wet kiss upon his cheek. "Or Percy. He's such a prat, it's not really a loss, is it?"

Mrs. Weasley sobbed harder than ever as she enfolded Harry in her arms.

"Promise you'll look after yourself… stay out of trouble and don't go falling out of any Quidditch hoops…"

"I always do stay out of trouble, Mrs Weasley," said Harry with a grin, "I like a quiet life, you know me."

She gave a watery chuckle, hugged Hermione, whispered something into her ear and stepped back.

"Be good, then, all of you…"

Harry stepped into the emerald fire and shouted, "Hogwarts, McGonagall's office!" He had one last fleeting view of the Weasley's kitchen and Mrs Weasley's tearful face before the flames engulfed him; spinning very fast, he caught blurred glimpses of other wizarding rooms, which were whipped out of sight before he could get a proper look; then he was slowing down, finally stopping squarely in the fireplace in Professor McGonagall's office. She barely glanced up from her work as he clambered out over the grate.

"Evening, Potter. Try not to get too much ash on the carpet."

"Of course not, professor."

Harry straightened his glasses and flattened his hair as Ron came spinning into view, quickly followed by Ginny and Hermione. When they had all arrived through the fireplace, they set off to their common room.

They were about to enter the Tower when Harry's biggest fan - Colin Creevey - rushed up the stairs towards them. "Harry!" He exclaimed as he reached the group. Hermione hid her amused smile behind a hand and murmuring the password to the Fat Lady (who looked a little hungover), entered the common room with Ginny.

Colin rummaged in his pocket for a moment, hand going in much deeper than it was supposed to, and pulled out a scroll of parchment with Dumbledore's handwriting on it.

"Here!" He said, an excited expression on his face. "Dumbledore asked me to give this to you."

Harry thanked him and the boy entered the common room before the portrait closed.

"Great," said Harry, unrolling the scroll at once to discover that his next lesson with Dumbledore was scheduled for the following Friday. "I'm meeting him Friday night."

Before Ron could answer, the portrait opened again (the Fat Lady rolled her eyes and harrumphed, but opened nevertheless) and Lavender hurtled herself at Ron, snogging him quite loudly. "Won-Won!" She exclaimed, dragging him to one of the armchairs. Harry sniggered and entered the room as well, making a beeline to the sixth year boys' dormitory.

.

History of Magic was as boring as ever, but as this was the new term and Harry had promised Hermione that he would do better after the New Year, he forced his eyes to stay open and his quill to stay in his hand.

He tried note taking, but instead started drawing doodles. After a while, he realised they were all Medieval-era themed. Hermione kept giving him 'the look' but she had already given up hope on Ron who was snoring away, which meant that Harry was now her main focus.

Grinding his teeth, Harry forced his sleep-deprived mind to stay awake. The visions were now happening every night and were seriously disturbing his sleep. He was sick of them so he refused to fall asleep, and when he did, he saw only the visions, which exhausted him.

Professor Binns had mentioned the Druids once or twice during his time at Hogwarts and the impression that he got, was that they had been a very secret sort of society, within an already very secret wizarding society. They served one mistress, Magic. It seemed that Emrys, who he kept seeing win his visions, was a Druid and had been born in a Druid clan. He occasionally went travelled to non-magical areas, and always seemed to get into trouble the moment he did that.

He briefly considered going to Dumbledore or Madam Pomfrey about his visions, but then decided against it. He had started seeing them after he'd hit his head. If he ever mentioned what had happened, he would instantly be sent to St Mungo's ward for the insane, or at least be confined to the infirmary until a solution was found.

He felt a pencil hit his head, and glancing around, he noted that everyone seemed to be asleep so he turned to Hermione and found her staring at him with steely eyes. In her hand she held another yellow pencil. Had she magically multiplied them?

Harry held up his hands in surrender, then picked up his quill and tried to concentrate on Professor Binns' lecture.

"…Camelot had a very formidable wall…" Harry straightened in his seat as he heard that name. He leaned forwards and stared at the teacher in surprise. He had heard that name countless of times in his visions. Emrys even now resided in Camelot, or at least in a small hamlet very close to it, away from the Druids, although he occasionally visited them.

"…and nothing could get through it. The few creatures and armies that did, found themselves confronted with the Knights of Camelot and their inner circle - the Knights of the Round Table."

Harry stared at the ghost, he hadn't known of the Knights of the Camelot! They hadn't come up in his visions yet!

"…And of course, their leader King Arthur." Harry frowned. As far as he knew, Camelot was currently ruled (in his visions) by the ruthless King Uther - and he didn't have a son… not even a wife. Harry sighed in disappointment. Whatever historical event Binns was talking about had probably happened later on in Camelot's history.

"…and at their side, stood the Warlock Merlin."

Harry blinked. Of course! Hadn't he once heard his first grade teacher reciting this story? As a child he hadn't been read to very much - well, only if one counted the few times he had managed to sneak under Dudley's bed before Petunia told him his bedtime story. He didn't know that many and always found himself lost whenever Hermione named a 'famous' character from some story or other.

Glancing at Hermione, he saw that she had already written eleven inches worth of notes. Looking down at his own parchment, Harry winced. He only had two or three lines of text and about ten inches of doodles.

"…Merlin, also known as Emrys…"

His voice seemed to disappear. Suddenly, the only thing Harry could hear, was the name he has just uttered. It wasn't possible, was it? How? Why? Harry gulped nervously, trying to refrain from shouting in shock. How had this happened. Was Emrys a common name? Was it just a coincidence that he was having visions from Emrys' life? Was his Emrys a different Emrys?

He was brought back to the classroom when he felt Hermione tap his forearm. His gaze fell upon her parchment whereupon he saw the words Camelot, Merlin, Emrys and Arthur.

No, his Emrys and Merlin were the same person.

Till next Saturday! :)