A/N This is written by my daughter, a 21 year-old big-time "Harry Potter" fan. After 11 years reading the series, she was greatly disappointed with the last book and has determined she could write a last chapter to the series that would fill the void...
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This is her work-in-progress:
To any passerby, it was just a bird. Although any living thing is rare in
the Arabian desert, there was nothing special about this particular bird.
Actually, to the average passerby, the well it sat at was much more uncommon
than the bird itself. To any average passerby.
To those who knew how to look, its grace and beauty was unmistakable. The
phoenix was an oasis of color in a sea of sepia. It perched on its well,
slowly preening its long tail feathers as the pale dawn brightened sky still
scattered with faint morning stars. The first ray of light struck its gold
and crimson plumes as the sun peaked over the horizon, sending gold light
bouncing from its feathers as if off a mirrored pool.
The phoenix sang, enjoying the birth of a new day. Its song rose with the
sun, its warmth and beauty filling the world with its light. The rich melody
echoed off of the purple shadowed dunes.
An intruder crept in with the morning light. No one could say that his sharp
cheekbones and angular jaw line were unattractive, and he walked with an
uncommon grace, casually pushing his dark hair out of deep set eyes But
there was something about him that spoke of ill intent. The phoenix flapped
its wings as if sensing the man's maliciousness.
A bead of sweat rolled down his brow in the humid air, already hot in the
desert morning. He had one chance. He raised his wand, eyes set on the
phoenix at the well. With sensuous lips, he mouthed a Latin phrase, and
ropes of liquid amber shot forth. In a burst of flame, the phoenix made his
escape, but not without a price. The ropes had ripped away one of the
phoenix's cherished tail feathers.
In agitation, the man claimed his prize.
No feather can be taken from a phoenix by force without horrible
consequences. There were as many possibilities for the stolen feather as
there were stars in the sky, but one thing was as certain as the rising sun.
What ever that feather was destined for, it would cause much pain in the
So the phoenix, mourning his lost feather, tracked it from afar. After many
changes of hands, the feather found its way to a new wand artisan in
England. There, it was embedded in a wand of yew.
The phoenix knew that it was too late to save the fate of the feather, but
something could be done to thwart the curse. Making up its mind, the phoenix
glided down and presented its last tail feather to the wand maker. A look of
understanding passed from man to bird, and the wand maker set to work.
Over a thousand years later, Harry Potter twirled his holly and phoenix
feather wand between his fingers, purely out of habit. It was a little less
than a month before his 17th birthday, so he was still under the age
restriction. Morning sunlight streaked into his little bedroom through cheap
gray window-blinds. A sliver of light fell across the ratty pillow Harry's
head rested on, illuminating the lightning-shaped scar on his forehead. His
green eyes were half-closed, his brow knit in deep thought.
Stuck at the Dursley's again. Harry breathed out a deep sigh. The magical
protection his mother's sister offered just wasn't worth it. After the
horrible end to his sixth year at Hogwarts for Witchcraft and Wizardry,
dealing with his miserable relatives was just icing on the cake, especially
when he had shown up earlier than planned. That conversation had been
fun -having to explain why. Being here had left him feeling even more empty,
and much less motivated. The only positive was that the endless chore list
his Aunt Petunia gave him each morning kept him too busy to feel. But he
never would have come back at all if not for Dumbledore's insistence.
Today was exactly two weeks after the death of Albus Dumbledore. He was
Harry's Headmaster, his mentor- and, Harry took a large gulp of air to quell
the rolling emotion within him,and, his friend. Two weeks. Harry felt so
much older than he had two weeks ago.
Suddenly, Harry's thoughts were disrupted by the bellow of his purple faced,
no-neck, lump of lard with overstated vocal cords of an uncle. "NO MORE
RUDDY OWLS! I WON'T HAVE IT, BOY!"
Harry sighed again, clamping his eyes shut. It was going to be another long
day. He reached under his glasses to rub the bridge of his nose where they
usually rested, pushing the wire rims into his dark eyebrows.
"SHUT THAT BLOODY INCESSANT TAPPING UP!" roared his snaggle-toothed, hot-tempered
pea brain of an uncle.
Hedwig rapped on the window again. Rumpling his already messy hair, he sat
up. The old box spring creaked under his weight as he reached to open the
window latch. In glided the snow white owl, who came to rest on Harry's
knees while he untied his letter from her outstretched leg. Absentmindedly,
Harry scratched her between the wings. Why read it? All it would say was
exactly what every other letter he had received said; "Chin up, it will all
be alright, we're here if you want to talk, etcetera, etcetera", with a
poorly hidden undertone of near panic and grief. It was exactly what his own
letters sounded like. No one ever wanted to talk. They all wanted Harry to
talk. And all he wanted to do -all he could do right now- was listen.
Removing a loose floor board, he added the letter to the growing collection
of unopened mail from the past few days. As long as he continued to send
along a small note each day with no more than "I'm fine, Love Harry" on it,
who would complain?
Something caught his eye as he slid the floor board back in place. The edge of
something was stuck underneath the next board over, and now caught the light. Harry gently pried up
the corner and slid it out.
A sad smile pulled at the corner of Harry's lips as he gazed at the
dog-eared and long forgotten Chocolate Frog card. This was the very card
that Ron Weasley, Harry's best friend, had given Harry on his first train
ride to Hogwarts. On the card was a portrait of Dumbledore himself.
Never again would he take that train ride back to his real home- Hogwarts.
But even if he did, it would never be the same. There was too much loss. The
magic and wonder, if not gone, had faded greatly. Was this a part of growing
up? Or was this because of the events at the end of term?
How could there ever be a Hogwarts with out Dumbledore? Who would be there
at the opening feast to 'say a few words' (Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment!
Tweak!)? Harry smiled mistily down at Dumbledore's portrait. In response,
Dumbledore's eyes gleamed back up at him, as if he knew precisely what was
currently occupying Harry's mind.
Despite the card being manufactured long ago, Harry noticed that "Current
Headmaster of Hogwarts" had been replaced. It now read "Headmaster of
Hogwarts: 1955 -1996." The magic of this didn't surprise him, but it did
make it seem a bit more final. Death was permanent when your very own
Chocolate Frog card said you had died.
With these thoughts in mind, he looked over the rest of the card. Harry
realized with a shock that he had never gotten to ask Dumbledore about the
twelve uses of dragon blood. He had always meant to ask, and now he never
He almost put the card back under the floor board, but decided against it.
Harry tucked it into his wand case, looking out of the corner of his eye to
avoid seeing the fake locket it already contained. He stuck the wand case
under his ratty pillow and trooped down the stairs, ready to face the day.