Phoenix Rising

Over 2000 miles to the south and east of Hogwarts castle, far underground beneath the blowing sands of Giza, an ancient consciousness stirred. A forked tongue flicked out between wicked fangs, tasting the musty air for the first time in forty generations.

Something was different, the creature knew. Something has disturbed its sleep.

The forked tongue flicked out again, savoring the taste of darkness and earth. But there was something new, an extra element that irritated him. Something hot and bright that should not be disturbing his slumber. And then he knew.

Ra was abroad in the world once again.

With the taste of his ancient enemy sharp in his mouth, Apep yawned his jaws and reached out to the objects around him. Invested with the souls of the pure, taken against their wills, they held the nectar that would bring him back to life. For if Ra had awakened, then Apep must not remain asleep. For Order, there must be Chaos.

If such a beast could laugh, he would have. The power of the souls he swallowed had weakened over time, but strength still flooded his long, sinuous body. In the dark, he fed, until his body was full to overflowing with the life force of the unwilling. Apep gathered his magic, and leapt.

With an explosion of sand and stone, Apep's scaled and leathery form burst from the desert earth, his wings beating steadily, his body a splash of pitch against the darkness of the night sky. He flicked his tongue to the air once more, and screamed, turning north and slightly west. I am coming, brother, he laughed. I hope you are ready for me.

He was looking forward to the games to come.

~-~-~-~-~-~HPDM~-~-~-~-~-~

Draco Malfoy was finding it difficult to hate Harry Potter.

A pragmatist by nature and by rearing, Draco had been taught, above all, to respect power. To treat it carefully, and to beware that if he fought against it, he should employ all of his cunning to never be caught. Power was power, and better to be associated with it than be forgotten.

For many years, that pragmatism had meant that the Malfoys followed Voldemort. After his first fall, they skirted wide of Dumbledore and courted political power instead. Then Voldemort had come back, and it seemed inevitable that he would retake Britain.

Until Harry Potter had turned his own killing curse back upon him, and the Malfoys had to face the truth: they had chosen the wrong power with which to ally themselves.

Draco mostly blamed his father, who was now locked in Azkaban for the rest of his life. Draco didn't know if he loved the man or not. It was difficult to think about, and there were layers of bitterness and resentment that he had yet to work through. When he was young, he used to think his father was all-powerful, incapable of making a wrong decision. The man's choices had brought them all to the brink of ruin, and had rendered him entirely impotent. Lucius Malfoy was now the definition of powerless.

And now Potter had power in spades. Mostly political, with a mountain of public goodwill that was not going anywhere soon, but also magical. He was one of the stronger wizards of their year, and master of the Elder Wand, although nobody had seen him use it. After Voldemort's death, it was as if the wand had just disappeared.

Add to that power the fact that his own mother had spared Potter's life in direct defiance of the Dark Lord, and that Potter had, in turn, testified to keep them both out of Azkaban, and Draco was finding it very difficult to maintain the same level of animosity towards the Boy Wonder.

It also didn't help that Potter was hot.

Draco could admit it to himself, if not to anyone else. Potter had kept growing until he was now two or three inches taller than Draco himself, and had filled out nicely with Quidditch-toned muscles. His face had matured, with sharp cheekbones and some scruff around his jaw. With his lightly tanned skin, just-shagged hair, and brilliant green eyes, the Boy Who Lived was making heads turn and had been featured in Witch Weekly nearly every issue since the Dark Lord's defeat.

In fact, when Draco had walked out onto the landing of the astronomy tower that night, Harry Potter had been at the forefront of his thoughts.

And now, gazing at a shallowly breathing Potter in the dim light of the hospital wing, he found himself replaying his first reaction to seeing the other boy.

Potter had obviously been caught off guard, but Draco had been, as well, not expecting anyone else to be on the astronomy tower on a cold night at midnight. But his shock had transformed almost instantly to fear as he saw Harry's face fill with horror in the moonlight, as he watched the boy windmill his arms and tip over the edge.

Of course, he could only really see the other boy's hands, head, and glimpses of his legs behind that sodding invisibility cloak of his. Of course Potter would have an invisibility cloak.

But it was that immediate reaction, his fear for Potter's life, that haunted him now, as he stared into the pale face of the boy who had once been his nemesis. Why should he care if Potter died or not? He certainly hadn't in the past.

Yet now it seemed he did.

“Mr. Malfoy.” The voice came from behind him.

Draco turned sharply, startled, although he really should have been paying more attention to his surroundings.

But it was only McGonagall, the old cat, looking down her nose at him with her pinched face set in a disapproving frown. He imagined Granger looking like that in about 60 years, all wrinkles and frosty glares.

“It would behoove you to return to the dungeons and get some sleep tonight, Mr. Malfoy. I am sure Mr. Potter will be grateful, as we all are, for your quick action in bringing him to us from the tower tonight. However, I think Madam Pomfrey is quite capable of caring for him, and your continued presence may prove a hindrance to her work.”

As if on cue, the Hogwarts mediwitch came bustling from her office in the back of the hospital wing where the two had been conferring only moments before, carrying a vial of blue potion that shone metallically in the light.

Draco stepped back willingly, but attempted to rally some of his usual disdain, trying to shrug off his confusion concerning Potter. It actually wasn't hard, considering the Headmistress' condescending tone. “Of course, Headmistress,” he demurred. “I wouldn't dream of impeding the Saviour's recovery.”

With that, he whirled away, hoping that the swirling blackness of his cloak held even a fraction of the menace that Severus Snape could once impart with the same motion. He stalked from the hospital wing with his chin up, not looking back.

When he finally reached the privacy of his dorm room (he was the only 8th year Slytherin boy) and had locked, warded, and silenced the room, he allowed himself to sigh heavily. He kicked off his boots and threw his crested school robe over the armchair in the corner. Collapsing onto his bed, he could finally think about what he had seen on the tower earlier that night.

Harry Potter, plummeting to his death.

Harry Potter, exploding with light like the surface of the sun.

Harry Potter, flying up to the tower encased in a glimmering cocoon of power, turning midnight to midday.

Draco closed his eyes against the remembered brightness of the memory. The boy's eyes had been glowing, for Salazar's sake. Right before he passed out, anyway. Draco had never seen anything like it.

But if that isn't power, then I don't know what is.

He turned on his side, trying not to think about how many people had been awakened by the explosion of light and magic. He hoped no one had seen him nearly running through the halls with Harry's body levitating in front of him, but only tomorrow would tell.

He decided that for now, he would try and get some sleep. Hopefully he wouldn't see Potter in his dreams. Or hopefully you will, a small part of his mind spoke up.

Shut up, the rest growled.

It took him a long time to fall asleep.

~-~-~-~-~-~HPDM~-~-~-~-~-~

Harry could hear voices as he floated slowly back to consciousness.

“His skin looks different. Do you see that?”

“His skin looks the same as it always has, 'Mione.”

“No, I'm sure of it! Look how it gleams in the light.”

“Maybe he's just sweaty.”

“Ronald! You have the observational skills of a Blast-ended Skrewt!”

It was impossible for Harry not to smile, so he gave the gig up and blinked. Then groaned, all amusement forgotten. The light hurt, like knives gouging into his skull.

“Oh, Harry, you're awake!”

Hermione's voice, that much closer, made his head feel like it was inside a bell. “No, I'm not. I'm dead.” He groaned again.

He heard some other vague noises, and then someone was pushing a potion vial to his lips. “Drink this, dear. You'll feel better.” Madam Pomfrey, then.

He forced himself to drink, then lay back against the pillow and waited for the potion to kick in. Slowly, the pain began ebbing away.

When it had abated to bearable territory, he opened his eyes to see three concerned faces staring down at him.

“How do you feel, dear?” Madam Pomfrey immediately asked, waving her wand in patterns over his body.

“Like I fell off a bloody tower,” he grumbled, earning himself a stern look from the mediwitch for his language. “Sorry,” he mumbled, only slightly abashed.

“You are lucky to be alive, Harry. Although I feel like I say this to you every time you are under my care. When Mr. Malfoy brought you to us, you had three fractured vertebrae, seven broken ribs, a broken clavicle, both shoulders dislocated, and both your eardrums has completely ruptured. You are quite lucky there was no permanent damage.”

She kept up her wand motions as she said this, while his friends watched their interplay. It gave Harry a bit of nostalgia to once again be back under the nurse's motherly care. “Thank you for patching me up again, Poppy,” he said, attempting a smile.

She gave him a soft look over her wand. “It's quite all right, dear.”

Hermione just looked worried, but Ron was smiling slightly.

“Didn't get enough near-death experiences with old Moldy Voldie, eh mate?”

He blinked. “Nah, I thought I'd give it another try. For old times sake, you know,” he grated out. Hermione was worrying her lip.

“Oh, Harry! They told us that you almost fell off the astronomy tower, but that Malfoy saved you and brought you down! What were you two doing up there?” Maybe it was the potions in him, but he was sure he wasn't imagining the slightly scandalized tone to her voice.

He decided to ignore it, instead rolling his eyes. “I'm sure he says he saved me, the git. And I DID fall off the tower.” He frowned. “At least I think I did.” He remembered the white light, the incredible heat filling his body. He concentrated, trying to take stock of how he actually felt right now, beyond the dull, lingering ache in his bones.

His body felt different. Heavy and full, with his skin stretched too tight. And he could feel the heat, pooling in his chest like a living thing.

What's happened to me?

“You fell off the tower?” Hermione cried, her eyebrows approaching her hairline.

Harry sighed. “I'll tell you what happened, but can you bring McGonagall so I can tell you all at once?”

“No need, Mr. Potter. I am already here.” And she was, sweeping through the hospital wing towards them. He was glad to see her, wanting to get this over with and go back to sleep. That potion had helped, but his head and body still ached.

He began the story, leaving out the parts about the minor existential crisis that had led him to look over the edge in the first place, and was only interrupted for minor questions until he described the light catching him, and the huge boom of sound.

“So that's what that was! It woke up the whole tower, mate! We thought we were being attacked!”

“Indeed, Mr. Potter, that light show caused all of us quite a scare last night. The magic was -” McGonagall looked off to the side for a moment, “like nothing I have ever felt.” Her eyes came back to his, filled with a question he couldn't answer. He squirmed a bit under the scrutiny.

Great, another thing to make me a freak.

“But what was it, Headmistress?” Harry asked.

She looked troubled. “I am sorry, Mr. Potter, but I do not know. However, it is not entirely uncommon for a wizard's magic to save his life without conscious control, in such a dire situation as you describe. Not uncommon, but I have never heard of a situation involving quite such a burst of power as we felt last night.”

“Maybe this has something to do with his magical maturity? I was just reading about -”

McGonagall quelled her with a look. “Perhaps you could explain to me your theory in my office, Miss Granger, that we may leave Mr. Potter to recuperate in peace.”

Hermione flushed. “Yes, Professor,” she said, sending an apologetic look to Harry. He tried to convey with his eyes that he didn't mind, then turned back to McGonagall.

“What about Draco?” he asked, then cursed himself for the slip.

“Draco?” he saw Ron mouth to Hermione. She shook her head. Harry blamed the potions for his misspeak.

“He is fine, Mr. Potter. It was lucky he was there, or we may not have found you before you suffered hypothermia, up there by yourself.” Harry was more comfortable with the stern gaze of the headmistress than that other, wondering look.

“Sorry, Headmistress,” he mumbled, looking down.

Luckily Madam Pomfrey stepped in at that moment, pronouncing him in good health, but that his body temperature was slightly high and he needed more rest. Happy for an excuse to be by himself for a while, Harry said his goodbyes and told Ron and Hermione that he would talk to them later.

Finally, left alone with his thoughts, Harry wondered again what had happened to him.

He remembered the light, flashing from the sky and filling his body. Or was it the other way around? He couldn't be sure. The heat in his chest was a mere shade of what had filled him before, that raging inferno that had lifted its wings around him and born him back up to the tower. He placed his palm flat on his chest. He could feel his heart beating, but could not feel the powerful heat that he had expected, though he could sense it inside himself, a coiling pocket of flame. And his body still felt tight, like an overinflated balloon, ready to burst at any moment.

Harry wanted to talk to Draco.

He wanted to know what had happened from the blonde's perspective, what the blonde had seen. He wanted to know why Draco had towed him down to the hospital wing.

I'll talk to him tomorrow, he thought. He really felt remarkably tired.

He drifted to sleep, his palm still over his heart.

~-~-~-~-~-~HPDM~-~-~-~-~-~

Apep flew above the clouds.

He could not sense his brother anymore, but he could roughly judge his location from the burst of magic that had awakened him.

I am coming, Ra. I will find you.

~-~-~-~-~-~HPDM~-~-~-~-~-~

TBC