By tearsofphoenix

Standard Disclaimer applies - it's all JKR's.

So here is my seventh story… In just a couple of months, after the first, so many came to my mind, one after the other, each and every one unexpected but demanding.

They are all quite closely related, in a universe that, in the first place, I wished to put into words to make my wishes more real; but after having decided to submit them I must say that I’m really grateful to the many persons who stopped to read these tales, and especially to the people that found the time to leave a review, cheers to everyone of them.

Many, many thanks to the wonderful Whitehound, again she has helped with the language in such a precious and respectful way that is difficult to find the right words to define her great job. Without her I couldn’t have found the courage to send anything more.

A big hug and my thanks, this time as the first one, to my friend M, who previews everything and gives always the greatest encouragement.

The initial inspiration is a little homage to a famous book written almost a century ago in my country; the story itself, written somewhat in the manner of an ancient fairy tale, is the homage – as it may be, the last before the very end of the saga - to the greatest series of this century, in the whole world of children’s literature.

Once upon a time there was -

"A king?" my little readers will immediately say.

No children, you are mistaken. Once upon a time there was a piece of wood. It was not fine wood, but a simple piece of wood from the wood yard, - the kind we put in the stoves and fireplaces so as to make a fire and heat the rooms.

Opening lines of Pinocchio, written in 1883 by Carlo Collodi (the pseudonym of Carlo Lorenzini)

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One upon a time there was –

“A piece of wood” my readers (who are supposed to know the right answer - this time) will immediately say.

No, readers, you are mistaken again. That is another story…

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Once upon a time there was a piece of rock, a stone…

The stone, like that wood, was full of magic, and magic was all around it…

Magic.

Muggles say the word for whatever makes them wonder, and they don’t worry themselves with thinking too much about what they are saying.

Muggle-born wizards and witches discover the meaning of the word when - thanks to a strange letter, enclosed in an envelope made of yellowish parchment, with the address written in emerald green ink - they finally understand that “freak” is not the word to describe their oddities.

Wizards and witches, and Squibs too, born in the few places that only they can see, say the word with reverence; magic being the essence - or the essential lack - of their lives.

Wizards and witches born by a half-magic marriage sometime resent the word, having suffered the consequences of an unlucky union… but afterwards they find in that word the better half among their options…

The stone didn’t feel the need to say the word. It would have been similar to the weird behaviour of those who speak to themselves out loud.

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Hidden from sight, of all times of the year it lived to the fullest at the end of every summer.

At that time “he” felt alive, a lifeblood flowed inside him, and it laughed, sang, joked, cried… in one hundred and one thousand streams that ran through the turreted body that kept inside it that heart of stone.

All the castle, too, because it had been built upon the stone, felt the urge to joke, to change his features every now and then… for the confusion of the students and the amusement of the teachers.

It had been just during one of those jokes, actually, that there had begun one of the most exciting and dangerous adventures witnessed during its long life.

It often relaxed his joints to change their position, and the movements seemed those of a stretching athlete. Who could have guessed that from one of those changes the three first-year students, still so similar to all the other ones, should have been redirected towards a forbidden floor, and towards one of its most hidden secrets?

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Many things had happened since the beginning of its history, since those times when the four founders of the school were living the events which by now were mythology… but the stone that was the heart of every magic remembered best of all another great adventure which had been lived there, the last, with a special liking: a preference reminiscent of the partiality many mothers show towards their youngest children.

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The magic that defined his life, expanding itself through the so-called inanimate essence of every stone and spreading all over the grounds around its centre, had actually shown its supreme potential in more recent times… when it had suffered the most endangering of its experiences.

For seven years the castle, which had become alive through the magic of the living stone which inspired it, had been the centre of a war. A war without pity, as everybody knew.

The natural landscape which surrounded it, too, had suffered the pain of those times, especially the year when the terrible black creatures had encircled all… that had been a truly horrible moment, the worst until the very end, which had been almost the end of everything.

Flowers couldn’t grow anymore… they had frozen under the touch of those life-eaters; songbirds were far from the castle, and the crows, too, that until then had seemed so in character with that magic land, like owls or black cats, were flying low, scared, shrieking in a different, unnatural way.

After the worsening damage of the last battle it seemed that even the flowers had vanished from the earth, no more butterflies were carried through the wind, only smoke and cries …

Thus it seemed that the heart of the stone, too, might be dead forever.

But its so-called heart of stone was still living, and when words were once again spoken in the place inside the castle which most resembled the core of everything, a shudder gave its ancient magic the strength to move the spiral staircase, and to open the door to new hope

“Phoenix rising” was the new password, said by a voice with a crystal-clear tone.

And the enchantment began again, when a young witch entered the office, looking at the wizard that was sitting at the desk.

“Have you finished revising the list?” she had asked, softly.

“Quite” had been the short answer, and after a few moments a parchment written in still-fresh ink was in her hands. She had waited to look at the names written there, because there was a matter to discuss before performing that reading.

“I’ve not finished mine…” she began; ”there are some things that I can’t decide without your advice.”

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The Dark Arts, of course, he had thought. Many times they had discussed the books now standing on those shelves, hidden from the world and from the knowledge of many; books that they had searched for and found in every remote recess of the castle during those long days when they seemed to be the only people still linked to these ruins and debris…

The stone felt guilt, thinking how the hidden rooms of the castle, its many entrances or secret chambers, may have helped not only those in need of them, but also those that had searched for subterfuges and short cuts.

But the school was ready to open its gates, and would soon do so. After a long time spent tracing the families still interested in the education that this place had offered for centuries, the list, revised for the last time by the new Headmaster, could be considered satisfactory; so what the witch was asking had to be done quickly.

That should be the last of the changes which needed to be done. The stone felt their paces, they were leaving the room together, and the stone couldn’t help but shiver, with fear this time, listening the subject of their discussion

“If we destroy everything we will not able to re-create the counter courses, if or when we might need them,” she was saying.

“There must be other places to keep those volumes” he had argued. “Albus never allowed them to be in our Library.”

“But they found a way to stay hidden in other places and to be discovered whatever he did… don’t you trust me to be able to keep them far from anyone's prying eyes, now that we have them under control?” had been the reply.

“We have already agreed on the fact that this is not the problem…” He was beginning to resume the annoyed tone familiar from their former interactions.

The stone hoped that they could find a solution: the memory of how the reading of one of those books by the wrong person had put their world in danger was still too recent…

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More time passed as the stone followed every new event around itself, radiating its magic so as to help the inhabitants, like a promise of improvement…

Then, one evening, the sweet breeze of the ghosts’ movements tickled the walls and swept away its shivering remembrances and its worries… a new group of first years was approaching and the excitement of the whole castle was palpable.

The Headmaster greeted the shy new pupils with a few firm, strong but encouraging words of welcome.

The staff, seated at the table of the Great Hall, looked at the youngsters, curious as every year's staff had always been.

The stone listened to the heartbeat of the little crowd assembled on the floor, which penetrated to his core and revitalised his true heart, completely.

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Magic was all around.

Muggles could have captured it in a marvellous movie.

Wizard and witches – it no longer mattered anymore how they had been born – should absorb it like a blessing.

As before, the stone didn’t need to say the name of what was celebrated just at that moment. What it would have really had the power to say, however, was not the word, but its true meaning, that one which the true magic had known for centuries.

Wonder, that was the word and that was the meaning: and a succession of words echoed through the magic stone, words heard just a few hours earlier which could forever prove and confirm that meaning…

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… “May I remind you that the students will arrive tomorrow?” the wizard had asked, opening the door of the Library and approaching the witch in a few long strides “Can this fact be worth the possibility of you leaving that book for a couple of hours?”

Severus Snape, the first Headmaster of this new incarnation of the school, had already reunited and instructed his staff and, thus, it wasn’t her contribution concerning the rules or the programme which he was asking for.

Hermione Granger, the youngest witch ever employed in this castle, closed the register where, starting from the following day, books borrowed or consulted for research would be inscribed. Then, with slow paces, she joined him.

His outwardly intimidating presence, and its real inner strength, were reassuring to her, and had been so for a long time: she needed to count on this, on him, because of the task she had put herself to, and for another reason which she had been able to acknowledge only since a few days ago.

“It's not as if you have to keep that register always at hand…” he went on “The charms with which we have enchanted that volume, and every book that is in the castle, will prevent people with evil intentions from even opening them, let alone stealing them" he said, following the woman through the door.

There had been a slight ironic colour to his last words, but she didn’t blush at the reminder of her old transgressions, and stated: "After what an evil-minded student was able to gain from these books without proper surveillance, it was only fair that another student should be able to borrow something with the sole intention of combatting that!"

He smiled, content to see a bit of her outraged strength of character emerging so easily. “Evil will find other ways to rise again, but at least we have done everything possible to prevent its rebirth in this school” was his last comment.

She nodded, grateful for his words.

The charms and the wards that they had developed and cast, in fact, had the same principle and the same strength as that given years before by Dumbledore to the Mirror of Erised as protection for the Philosopher’s Stone… the successful recreation of that enchantment had been of the greatest benefit to their still-vulnerable will to go on, to keep faith and to feel again the real power of magic.

After a few steps he stopped, and she gazed at him with curiosity.

“Will you wish to celebrate before the opening?” he said finally, with care. “We have been together through this since the true beginning …”

It wasn’t a common thing to find this man at a loss for words, he who had always had a gift for biting, demanding, instructive and, in his own way, encouraging phrases. But they had shared many moments like this, so to her it was a joy to be aware that the silence between them wasn’t a sign of awkwardness; and knowing also that, now, she didn’t need to say too many words in order to have his full attention.

Hermione nodded again, taking his hand and following his steps, with trust.

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Through the eyes of the previous inhabitants of the castle, painted in their most glorious aspect, the heart of the stone perceived then the peace and the serenity with which the last two people charmed by its power were moving towards their destiny.

And later, from another side of the castle, it was their very voices that joined directly with the core of its enchantment, without the mediation of any portrait:

“How can you be so sure…? To you the Muggle world is less easy to leave than it is for me…”

“I meant what I said the first time… I will not fly away, not from the castle and surely not from you.”

“Silly girl… I won’t ask you this anymore, then, or at least I’ll try…”

“I don’t regret anything, and you of all people must know the truth of what I’m saying.”

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Flowing down from the tallest tower, once the most charming and then for a time the most infamous one, where nobody ever went anymore, until this moment, for this kind of encounter, these words were followed by other softened, whispered ones, after a silence that sounded like a strange music to the listening heart:

“One day we might be waiting for the Sorting of a child of ours, you know…”

“I was just wondering about something very close to that possibility…”

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Wonder, then, that was the word. Strange how Muggles had been right since the beginning…

Because it is life, and its magic, its giving birth and its renewals and reprieves, that, when it flourishes again, fills everyone with wonder - surprised as they are by the warmth of it, even after the coldest season.

A/N

The idea that Tom Riddle found a book - from which he learnt the spell to use for making Horcruxes - in Hogwarts, even if not in the Library, is just a possibility. Nothing in canon states the contrary: I asked Duj for confirmation of this, whom I therefore thank for all her advice on this subject.

Some images of the castle, like that of the staircases leading to the third floor, are borrowed more from the movies than from the books, but the two things are often a bit mixed in my mind…

In my AU stories I gave to these two characters the respective roles of Headmaster (I’ve loved this detail in some other beautiful fan fictions I've read, and can’t help but like this possibility) and of librarian (it being known that she will not be a professor), so this tale is also to show that her task is more important than it might seem; and it is also a further step in the relationship suggested by all the half-spoken things written until now.

The power of the stone is only a metaphorical idea born in my mind, nothing in the books suggests something like this, but it seemed the more right for its many possible connections with sayings and with mysterious places or traditions. And of course I subscribe to what JK says about magic: "I don't believe in witchcraft” (even if I don't deny the possibility of its existence), yet surely there must be something wonderful, charming and bewitching to us all, in her writings and in the dreams with open eyes which they inspire…

Magic, as I mean it, follows the rules of imagination, of fantasy, of love, the only things that can make almost all things possible and whose effects fill us with wonder.