Age One to Two - The Foundation
The year following my awakening was a careful dance of hiding and learning.
Every Sunday evening, like clockwork, Aberforth arrived through the Floo. My father would close the pub early, my mother would take herself upstairs with a book and a cup of tea, and my real education would begin.
"You can't just throw power around," Aberforth lectured during one early session, when I was barely fourteen months old. "Power without control is a forest fire. Destructive, unpredictable, and liable to burn down everything you care about."
I nodded seriously from where I sat on the floor, which apparently unnerved him.
"Most children your age are still learning to walk properly," he muttered. "You're nodding along to magical theory like you understand it."
Because I do, I thought but didn't say. I'd been careful since the awakening—showing progress, yes, but not so much that it seemed impossible. Learning to talk earlier than normal but not suspiciously so. Walking well but with the occasional stumble to maintain the illusion.
The ancient knowledge the phoenixes had given me was both a blessing and a curse. I knew spells that wouldn't be invented for decades. I understood magical theory that most adult wizards never grasped. But I was trapped in a toddler's body, with a toddler's magical channels, a toddler's physical limitations.
It was like having a supercomputer running on a hand-crank generator.
"Show me the flame again," Aberforth said, settling into the chair we'd brought down to the cellar training room.
I closed my eyes and reached for the phoenix fire. It responded immediately, eager and warm. A small golden flame appeared in my palm, dancing and flickering.
"Hold it. Count to thirty."
The flame wavered as I concentrated. Fifteen seconds. Twenty. Twenty-five. At twenty-eight, my concentration broke and the flame sputtered out.
"Better," Aberforth acknowledged. "Last week you could barely hold it for fifteen seconds. You're improving."
"Slowly," I said, frustrated.
"You're one year old," he pointed out dryly. "Slowly is appropriate."
But I didn't want slow. I wanted fast. Because somewhere out there, Voldemort was rising to power. Death Eaters were recruiting. The First Wizarding War was escalating. And in just over a year, Harry Potter would be born and the prophecy would begin its terrible work.
"Tell me about the war," I said, changing tactics.
Aberforth's expression darkened. "You're too young to worry about such things."
"I can feel it," I insisted, which was true. The magical world had a tension to it, a sense of fear and violence that permeated even our little corner between worlds. "People at the pub talk. They're scared."
"They should be." Aberforth was quiet for a moment. "There's a dark wizard. Calls himself Lord Voldemort. He's gathering followers, attacking Muggle-borns, trying to take over the Ministry. He believes in blood purity, in wizarding supremacy. And he's powerful. Very powerful."
"Can he be stopped?"
"Everyone can be stopped. Question is what the cost will be." Aberforth looked at me seriously. "That's a lesson you need to learn early, Cillian. Power always has a cost. Voldemort has power, but he's paid for it by making himself into something barely human. By sacrificing everything good about himself in pursuit of strength."
"And Uncle Albus?"
"Albus has power too. But he pays for it differently—with loneliness, with responsibility, with the weight of all his past mistakes." Aberforth's voice was bitter. "He thinks he's the only one who can stop Voldemort. Maybe he's right. But that kind of thinking, that belief that you're the only one who can save everyone… it's its own kind of darkness."
"What about you?" I asked. "You're powerful. Why don't you fight?"
"I do fight. Just not on Albus's terms." Aberforth leaned forward. "I protect my pub, my customers, my corner of the world. When Death Eaters come to Hogsmeade, I make sure they regret it. But I don't join organizations. Don't follow leaders. Don't let anyone turn me into a chess piece in their grand strategies."
"Is that what you want me to be? Someone who protects their own corner?"
"I want you to be someone who makes their own choices," Aberforth said firmly. "Not Albus's weapon. Not anyone's weapon. Your own person, with your own code, your own decisions."
It was a lesson I took to heart.
Age Two - The Discipline
By my second birthday, I could maintain the phoenix flame for five minutes straight. I could levitate objects up to five pounds. I could cast a basic shield charm without a wand.
I could also carry on complex conversations, read at a fourth-grade level, and had started asking questions about magical theory that made Aberforth look at me with increasing suspicion.
"Where does magic come from?" I asked one evening, after we'd finished the physical training portion of our session.
"From within," Aberforth answered. "From your core, your life force, your will."
"But where did it come from originally? How did wizards get magic when Muggles didn't?"
"That's… that's a question that's been debated for centuries."
"What do you think?"
Aberforth studied me for a long moment. "I think you already know the answer. That ancient knowledge the phoenixes gave you—it includes this, doesn't it?"
I hesitated, then nodded.
"Then why are you asking me?"
"Because knowledge isn't the same as understanding. I know the theory, but I want to hear how you see it. How someone who's lived with magic their whole life understands it."
"You talk like someone three times your age," Aberforth observed.
"The phoenixes changed me," I said, which was technically true. "The knowledge they gave me… it's not just facts. It's like having memories of studying things I never studied. Conversations I never had. It's confusing."
"I imagine it would be." Aberforth was quiet for a moment. "Alright. You want to know what I think? I think magic is alive. Not conscious, exactly, but alive. And it chose to bond with certain humans, for reasons we may never fully understand. We're not just using magic—we're partnered with it. Symbiotics."
"So when I use magic, I'm asking it to do something? Not forcing it?"
"Exactly. You can force it, the way Voldemort does, the way dark wizards do. But forced magic is brittle. Fragile. True mastery comes from cooperation, from working with the magic rather than against it."
It was a perspective I hadn't fully considered, despite all my knowledge. The books and movies had treated magic as a tool, something to be wielded. But Aberforth was describing it as a relationship.
"The phoenix fire," I said slowly. "It doesn't feel like I'm controlling it. It feels like… like it wants to help me. Like we're working together."
"That's because you're doing it right." Aberforth smiled, a rare genuine smile. "The phoenix fire is ancient magic, Cillian. Older than wands, older than most spells. It remembers when magic and wizards first bonded. That's why it responds so well to you—you're treating it as a partner, not a tool."
"Will you teach me more about that? About working with magic instead of just using it?"
"That's what I've been trying to teach you all along," Aberforth said. "You're just finally ready to understand it."
Age Two and a Half - The Understanding
Winter came, and with it, worse news from the war.
I heard whispers at the pub. Death Eater attacks were increasing. The Ministry was struggling. Entire families were disappearing. The Order of the Phoenix—Albus's organization—was fighting back, but the cost was high.
"Another one gone," I heard a wizard mutter to his companion at the bar. "McKinnon family. All of them. Burned alive."
My blood ran cold. I knew that name. Marlene McKinnon. She was in the Order. She would die—had died? Was dying now?—along with her entire family.
The timeline was progressing. Events were happening. And I was two and a half years old, barely able to defend myself, let alone change anything.
"Uncle Abe," I said during our next training session. "I want to learn combat magic."
"You're two."
"I'm two with the phoenix fire and ancient knowledge. I can handle it."
"Handling it and being ready for it are different things." But Aberforth looked troubled. "Why the sudden interest in combat magic?"
"Because people are dying. Because there's a war. Because…" I struggled with how much to say. "Because I want to be able to protect people."
"Noble sentiment. Dangerous application." Aberforth pulled out his wand. "Combat magic isn't about power, Cillian. It's about speed, precision, and knowing what spell to use when. You can be the most powerful wizard in the world, but if you're too slow, you're dead."
"Then teach me to be fast."
He did.
For the next six months, our training intensified. Aberforth taught me shielding spells, disarming charms, stunning spells. He taught me to fight dirty, to use the environment, to never telegraph my moves.
"In a real fight," he said, "there's no such thing as playing fair. You do whatever it takes to survive and protect who you're protecting."
"What about dark magic?" I asked carefully.
"What about it?"
"Should I learn it? To understand how to defend against it?"
Aberforth was quiet for a long time. "Dark magic isn't just about the spells, Cillian. It's about intent. About what you're willing to sacrifice to achieve your goals. Some spells, once you learn them, they change you. Leave marks on your soul."
"But if I need to fight someone who uses dark magic—"
"Then you use light magic better than they use dark. You be faster, smarter, more creative." He looked at me seriously. "Don't go down that path. Not yet. Maybe not ever. You have enough power without needing to corrupt it."
I wanted to argue. Wanted to say that knowledge was neutral, that understanding dark magic didn't mean using it. But I saw the pain in Aberforth's eyes, the memories of what dark magic had cost his family, and I kept quiet.
There would be time later. Right now, I needed to master the basics.
Age Three - July 24th, 1980 - One Week Before the War Ends
My third birthday dawned clear and bright, but there was tension in the air.
The war had reached a fever pitch. Death Eater attacks were happening almost daily. The Ministry was in chaos. The Order of the Phoenix was suffering heavy casualties.
And somewhere, James and Lily Potter were preparing for the birth of their son.
My parents tried to make the day festive. There was cake, presents, decorations. But I could see the worry in their eyes every time someone came through the pub talking about the latest attack.
"Cillian!" my mother called. "You have a visitor!"
I looked up from the toy broomstick I'd been pretending to be excited about to see Aberforth coming through the front door, looking unusually serious.
"Happy birthday, lad," he said, but there was no joy in his voice.
"What's wrong?" I asked, dropping the pretense of being a normal three-year-old.
Aberforth glanced at my parents, then knelt down to my level. "Can I talk to the birthday boy for a moment? In private?"
My father nodded, looking worried, and Aberforth led me down to the training room.
"There's been a prophecy," he said without preamble.
My heart stopped. The prophecy. The one that would doom Harry Potter to either kill Voldemort or be killed by him.
"What kind of prophecy?" I asked carefully.
"The dangerous kind. About a child born at the end of July who will have the power to defeat the Dark Lord." Aberforth's expression was grave. "There are two couples it could apply to. The Potters and the Longbottoms. Both have children due any day now."
"And Voldemort knows about it?"
"Albus thinks he might. Which means both families are in terrible danger." Aberforth looked at me intently. "I'm telling you this because… because I think you already knew. Or suspected. You've been asking about the war, about Voldemort, about prophecies. You have that ancient knowledge. Did it include this?"
I could lie. Should lie. But Aberforth had been honest with me, had trained me, had protected me from Albus's machinations.
"Not exactly," I said slowly. "But I knew… I knew something was coming. Something important involving a child born in late July."
"How much do you know, Cillian? Really?"
"Enough to know that the war is about to change," I said. "Enough to know that lives are at stake. Enough to want to help but not know how."
Aberforth was quiet for a long moment. "You're three years old. There's nothing you can do to stop what's coming."
"I know. But in the future—"
"In the future, you'll be older. Stronger. More capable." He put a hand on my shoulder. "But right now, your job is to survive. To keep training. To be ready for when your time comes. Understand?"
"I understand."
"Good." He pulled out a small wrapped package. "This is your birthday present. From me."
I unwrapped it carefully. Inside was a wand holster—clearly made for someone much older than three, but beautiful craftsmanship nonetheless.
"You won't get your wand for eight more years," Aberforth said. "But when you do, this will protect it. Keep it safe. It's made from phoenix leather—I commissioned it specially after your awakening. It'll grow with you, adjust to your size."
"Thank you," I said, genuinely touched.
"There's something else." Aberforth pulled out an envelope. "This is from Albus."
My stomach sank. "What is it?"
"An invitation. He wants to give you access to the Dumbledore family vault at Gringotts. As a birthday present."
I stared at the envelope. "Why now?"
"Because he knows something is happening. Can feel the magical currents shifting. And he wants to make sure you're… prepared. Or indebted. Hard to tell with Albus." Aberforth's voice was bitter. "He also wants to see you in person. Tomorrow, at Hogwarts."
"Do I have to go?"
"Not legally. You're three. But if you refuse, it'll make him more suspicious. More determined to understand what you are." Aberforth sighed. "Politics, Cillian. Even at three years old, you can't escape family politics."
"Will you come with me?"
"No. That would make it seem like I'm trying to protect you from him, which would raise more questions." He squeezed my shoulder. "But I'll teach you what to say. How to act. How to give him just enough to satisfy his curiosity without revealing what you really are."
We spent the next hour practicing. How to seem like a bright but normal three-year-old. How to deflect questions. How to make the ancient knowledge seem like natural intelligence rather than supernatural gift.
By the time we were done, I was exhausted.
"One more thing," Aberforth said as he prepared to leave. "The Potter boy. Harry. He'll be born next week. July 31st."
"I know."
"Do you know what's going to happen to him?"
I hesitated. "I have… suspicions. Fears."
"If those fears come true, if the worst happens…" Aberforth looked at me seriously. "Would you protect him? When you're older, when you're strong enough?"
"Yes," I said without hesitation. "I would."
"Good." He stood. "Because I think that might be your real purpose, Cillian. Not just to be powerful, but to be the one who protects those who can't protect themselves. To be what Albus should have been for Ariana."
After he left, I sat in the training room, processing everything.
One week. In one week, Harry Potter would be born, and the countdown to Voldemort's attack would begin. Fifteen months from now, Halloween 1981, everything would change.
And tomorrow, I would face Albus Dumbledore and try to convince him I was just a bright three-year-old, not a reincarnated soul with knowledge of the future and the power to rival the greatest wizards alive.
No pressure, I thought.
The phoenix fire hummed inside me, warm and ready.
Three years old. Three years of training. Three years of preparing for a future I knew was coming but couldn't yet prevent.
But soon, I promised myself. Soon I'll be strong enough. Old enough. Ready enough.
And then I'll change everything.