One year.
Twelve months.
Three hundred and sixty-five days of being trapped in a body that refused to cooperate with my adult mind.
If I never had to experience infancy again, it would be too soon.
But today—my first birthday—all of that frustration was about to pay off in ways I couldn't have possibly anticipated.
The morning started normally enough. My mother had decorated The Crossroads with streamers and balloons (both magical and mundane), and there was a small cake waiting in the kitchen with a single candle. Nothing extravagant—just family. Just us.
Which was exactly what I'd needed for the past year: time, privacy, and space to experiment without scrutiny.
"Look at you!" Margaret cooed, lifting me into her arms. "One whole year old! Can you believe it, Tom?"
My father smiled from where he was setting up chairs. "Seems like just yesterday we were arguing about names."
Seems like an eternity to me, I thought, but managed to produce an appropriate baby giggle instead.
The past year had been an exercise in patience and incremental progress. I'd learned to crawl at six months (could've done it earlier, but didn't want to seem too advanced). Started walking at ten months (again, deliberately delayed). Could say a few words now—"mama," "dada," "more," "no"—though I was capable of full sentences if I'd wanted to risk it.
But my real progress had been magical.
Every night, after my parents went to bed, I practiced. Feeling the magic, moving it, shaping it. I couldn't do much—levitate small objects, create tiny sparks, make water in my cup ripple. Baby magic, literally. But I could feel myself getting stronger, more controlled.
And I could feel the phoenix fire inside me, those embers growing hotter with each passing day.
Today, something felt different.
The magic hummed under my skin with an intensity I hadn't felt before. It was like standing next to a generator, feeling the electricity in the air. The embers weren't just warm anymore—they were hot, pressing against some invisible barrier, demanding release.
Not yet, I told myself firmly. Not until tonight. Not until you're alone and can control it.
"Should we do presents first or cake first?" Margaret asked, bouncing me on her hip.
"Cake," my father and I said simultaneously, though mine came out as "Cay!"
Margaret laughed. "Cake it is, then."
The afternoon passed in a blur of birthday celebration. I received gifts—a toy broomstick that hovered two inches off the ground (which I pretended to be delighted by but secretly found insulting to my dignity), some building blocks, a stuffed dragon that roared when you squeezed it.
I ate cake. Well, mostly I smashed cake into my face while my parents laughed and took pictures with a magical camera that made the photos move.
It was sweet. Domestic. Normal.
And all the while, the fire inside me grew hotter.
By evening, I was exhausted from maintaining the facade of being a normal one-year-old. My parents put me to bed early, kissing my forehead and whispering happy birthday wishes.
The moment they closed the door, I sat up in my crib.
The magic was screaming now, demanding attention. The embers had become flames, pressing against that barrier with increasing urgency. I could feel sweat beading on my forehead despite the cool night air.
Okay, I thought, my heart racing. Okay, this is happening. This is really happening.
I'd read about magical awakenings in the books. Harry's parseltongue. Neville's accidental magic when his uncle dropped him. But this felt different. This felt like something inside me was trying to claw its way out.
Control it, I told myself. You have to control it or you'll bring the whole building down.
I closed my eyes and reached inward, toward that burning core of power. Instead of pushing it away like I'd been doing all day, I pulled it closer. Embraced it. Let it wash over me.
The effect was immediate and overwhelming.
Fire erupted from my skin—not harmful, not burning, but brilliant golden flames that wrapped around my tiny body like a cocoon. I gasped, watching in amazement as the phoenix fire danced across my arms, my chest, my face, responding to my will like an extension of my own body.
Holy shit, I thought. Holy shit, it's real. It's actually real.
The flames grew brighter, and I felt something shift deep inside me. A door that had been locked suddenly swung open, and power flooded through me in a torrent that made my previous magic feel like a candle compared to a bonfire.
I could feel everything. The magic in the walls of The Crossroads. The wards my father had placed around the building. The sleeping minds of my parents two floors below. The heartbeat of magic itself, pulsing through the earth like a living thing.
And I could feel them.
Ancient presences, awakening from sleep. Turning their attention toward me like spotlights swinging to illuminate a stage.
Oh no.
The phoenix fire blazed brighter, and suddenly I wasn't in my crib anymore.
I was standing (somehow, despite being a one-year-old who could barely walk) in a space that existed outside of space. The walls of The Crossroads were gone, replaced by an endless expanse of golden fire that stretched in all directions.
And I wasn't alone.
Three figures materialized from the flames. No—not figures. Phoenixes. But not like Fawkes, not like the relatively small birds from the movies. These were massive, ancient, primal beings that radiated power like suns.
The first was crimson and gold, with eyes that held the weight of millennia. The second was silver and white, its feathers seeming to shift between solid and ethereal. The third was pure flame, constantly burning and reforming, never quite solid.
CHILD OF THE OLD BLOOD, the crimson phoenix spoke, its voice resonating in my mind like a bell. YOU HAVE AWAKENED.
WE HAVE SLEPT FOR GENERATIONS, the silver phoenix continued. WAITING FOR ONE WHO COULD CALL US FORTH.
THE FIRE RECOGNIZES YOU, the flame phoenix finished. AS WE RECOGNIZE THE FIRE.
I stood there, a one-year-old baby in a metaphysical space facing down three ancient magical beings, and managed to think: Well, this is new.
"Um," I said, and was surprised to find my voice worked here. Adult voice, not baby babble. "Hi?"
The phoenixes tilted their heads in unison, a gesture that would've been comical if they weren't each the size of a house.
YOU ARE YOUNG, the crimson one observed. TOO YOUNG TO HAVE AWAKENED NATURALLY.
"Yeah, about that," I said, finding my footing in this weird dream-space. "I may have been pushing things along. Practicing magic. Training. You know. The usual."
UNUSUAL, the silver phoenix corrected. MOST CHILDREN DO NOT TRAIN FROM BIRTH.
MOST CHILDREN ARE NOT REBORN, the flame phoenix added, and my blood ran cold.
They knew.
YOUR SOUL IS OLD, the crimson phoenix said, fixing me with those ancient eyes. OLDER THAN THIS BODY. YOU HAVE LIVED BEFORE.
"I—" I swallowed hard. "You can tell?"
WE ARE PHOENIXES, all three said together. DEATH AND REBIRTH ARE OUR NATURE. WE RECOGNIZE OUR OWN.
The silver phoenix moved closer, examining me with interest. A SOUL REBORN INTO A BODY OF THE OLD BLOOD. CARRYING KNOWLEDGE FROM ANOTHER LIFE. AWAKENING THE FIRE AT ONE YEAR OF AGE. Its eyes glinted. AMBITIOUS.
"I have things I need to change," I said, deciding honesty was probably the best policy when dealing with ancient magical beings who could read souls. "People I need to save. A timeline I need to fix."
THE MORTAL DESIRE TO CHANGE FATE, the flame phoenix said, almost amused. ALWAYS THE SAME REFRAIN.
"But you're going to help me anyway," I said, with more confidence than I felt. "Because I awakened the bloodline. Because I called you forth. Because—"
BECAUSE IT AMUSES US, the crimson phoenix interrupted. BECAUSE WE ARE CURIOUS TO SEE WHAT AN OLD SOUL IN A YOUNG BODY MIGHT ACCOMPLISH. BECAUSE THE WORLD HAS GROWN STAGNANT, AND CHANGE IS COMING WHETHER YOU WILL IT OR NOT.
The three phoenixes began to circle me, their flames intertwining.
WE WILL GRANT YOU THREE GIFTS, they said in unison. AS IS TRADITION WHEN THE BLOOD AWAKENS.
FIRST: THE FLAME ETERNAL. The crimson phoenix touched my chest with one wing, and I felt fire settle into my core, warm and constant. YOUR MAGIC WILL NEVER DEPLETE. LIKE THE PHOENIX, YOU WILL BURN FOREVER.
SECOND: THE SONG OF RENEWAL. The silver phoenix's wing brushed my throat. YOUR VOICE WILL CARRY THE POWER OF PHOENIX SONG. HEALING, COURAGE, DESPAIR—ALL CAN BE WOVEN INTO MELODY.
THIRD: THE FIRE'S KNOWLEDGE. The flame phoenix touched my forehead, and suddenly my mind was flooded with information. Spells, rituals, ancient magic that had been lost for centuries. The accumulated knowledge of every Dumbledore who had ever wielded the phoenix fire. WHAT WAS FORGOTTEN IS NOW REMEMBERED.
I staggered under the weight of it all, barely staying on my feet.
"That's… that's a lot," I managed.
YOU WANTED POWER, the crimson phoenix said. POWER HAS A PRICE. THE PRICE IS BEARING ITS WEIGHT.
USE IT WISELY, the silver phoenix added. OR USE IT FOOLISHLY. THE CHOICE IS YOURS.
BUT KNOW THIS, the flame phoenix said, its voice turning grave. THE AWAKENING HAS BEEN FELT. ACROSS THE WORLD, THOSE SENSITIVE TO SUCH THINGS WILL HAVE NOTICED A SHIFT IN THE MAGICAL CURRENTS. THEY WILL WONDER. THEY WILL SEARCH.
"How long do I have?" I asked urgently. "Before they find me?"
HOURS, the crimson phoenix said. PERHAPS DAYS. THE AWAKENING WAS POWERFUL. VIOLENT. LIKE A BEACON IN THE NIGHT.
"Can you hide me? Shield me?"
WE CAN OBSCURE THE SOURCE, the silver phoenix said. MAKE IT DIFFICULT TO PINPOINT. BUT WE CANNOT ERASE WHAT WAS FELT. THE POWERFUL WILL COME LOOKING.
"Then I need to prepare—"
YOU NEED TO WAKE UP, the flame phoenix interrupted. SOMEONE IS COMING. SOMEONE WHO KNOWS THE OLD MAGIC WHEN HE FEELS IT.
The dream-space began to dissolve, the phoenixes fading back into flame.
REMEMBER, they called as I fell back into my body. THE FIRE IS YOURS NOW. USE IT WELL.
I gasped awake in my crib, the golden flames still flickering across my skin. Quickly, desperately, I pulled them inward, forcing them down until they were hidden again beneath my skin.
Just in time.
Downstairs, I heard the fireplace roar to life.
"Tom! Margaret! Are you here?"
Aberforth's voice, urgent and worried.
I heard my father's footsteps, heavy with sleep. "Uncle Abe? What's wrong? It's past midnight—"
"Did you feel it?" Aberforth demanded. "Tell me you felt it."
"Feel what?"
"The awakening. The phoenix fire. It just—" Aberforth stopped abruptly. "Where's the boy?"
"Cillian? He's asleep. It's his birthday, we put him to bed hours ago—"
"I need to see him. Now."
Footsteps on the stairs. My door opened, and I quickly arranged myself to look like a sleeping baby, curled up in my crib with my thumb in my mouth (dignity be damned).
Light flooded the room. I kept my eyes closed, my breathing even.
"He looks fine," my father said quietly. "Uncle Abe, what's going on?"
"An hour ago, every magical creature in Britain felt a pulse of phoenix fire," Aberforth said, his voice low and intense. "Authentic, ancient phoenix fire. Not just a manifestation, but a full awakening. The kind that hasn't been felt in over two hundred years."
"And you think it was Cillian?"
"I know it was Cillian. I can feel the residue in this room. Can you smell it? That's phoenix ash in the air."
I heard my father inhale sharply. "But he's only one year old—"
"Which makes this even more unprecedented." Aberforth walked closer to my crib, and I felt him staring down at me. "Tom, your son just became one of the most magically powerful beings in Britain. Maybe in the world."
"That's… that's not possible."
"It's happening anyway." Aberforth was quiet for a moment. "We have a problem. If I felt it, others did too. Particularly—"
The fireplace roared again downstairs.
Both men went still.
"That'll be Albus," Aberforth said grimly. "He would've felt it stronger than anyone. The phoenix fire was always his obsession."
"What do we do?" My father's voice was panicked.
"You go down and stall him. I'll see if I can… obscure the trail somehow. Make it less obvious that the awakening came from this specific room."
"And if he insists on seeing Cillian?"
"Then we show him a sleeping baby and play dumb. With any luck, he'll think the awakening came from somewhere else in the area." Aberforth pulled out his wand. "Go. Now."
My father hurried downstairs. I heard muffled voices—Albus Dumbledore's distinctive calm tone, my father's nervous replies.
Aberforth moved quickly, waving his wand in complex patterns. I felt magic settle over the room like a blanket, muffling, obscuring, redirecting. Whatever traces of the phoenix fire I'd left behind were being carefully hidden.
"I know you're awake," Aberforth said quietly, not looking at me.
I considered maintaining the pretense, then decided against it. I opened my eyes.
"Smart boy," he muttered, still casting. "That awakening was about as subtle as a dragon in a tea shop. Every sensitive magical creature in Britain felt it. Albus definitely did. So here's what's going to happen: you're going to be a normal baby. You're going to cry a little when he picks you up, because that's what babies do when strangers wake them. You're not going to do anything magical. Understand?"
I made a small sound of agreement.
"Good." Aberforth finally turned to look at me, and his eyes widened slightly. "Merlin's beard, your eyes…"
"What about them?" I asked, then immediately regretted it when Aberforth nearly dropped his wand.
"You can talk. Of course you can talk. Because a normal magical awakening wasn't enough." He rubbed his face tiredly. "Your eyes are glowing. Just slightly, but they're definitely glowing. Gold around the pupils."
Damn it.
"Can you make them stop?" Aberforth asked.
I concentrated, pulling the fire deeper, and felt the glow fade.
"Better. Now remember—normal baby. And for Merlin's sake, don't talk."
Footsteps on the stairs. Albus Dumbledore was coming.
I barely had time to close my eyes and assume a sleeping position before my door opened again.
"As you can see, he's fine," my father was saying, his voice strained. "Just sleeping peacefully. His birthday wore him out."
"May I?" Albus's voice was gentle, but there was an undercurrent of intense curiosity.
"Of course."
I felt myself being lifted from the crib. Through barely-slitted eyes, I caught my first glimpse of Albus Dumbledore in person.
He was younger than in the movies—auburn hair instead of silver, fewer lines on his face—but those eyes were unmistakable. Blue, piercing, and far too knowing.
Those eyes were currently examining me with the intensity of someone trying to solve a particularly complex puzzle.
"A beautiful child," Albus said softly. "He has the Dumbledore eyes."
"Yes," my father said. "He does."
"And you say he was born exactly one year ago today?"
"Yes. Why?"
"Curious timing." Albus adjusted his hold on me, and I let out a small whimper of protest, channeling every bit of 'sleepy baby disturbed by stranger' that I could manage. "There, there, little one. I apologize for the intrusion."
He looked at Aberforth, who was leaning against the wall with forced casualness.
"Strange, isn't it?" Albus said. "That we should all three be here at this particular moment."
"Not so strange," Aberforth countered. "I was visiting for the boy's birthday. Brought him a gift earlier. You're the one who showed up uninvited in the middle of the night."
"I felt something," Albus said simply. "A pulse of ancient magic. Phoenix fire, unless I'm very much mistaken."
"Phoenix fire?" My father's confusion sounded genuine. "Like Fawkes?"
"Older than Fawkes. Older than any living phoenix." Albus's eyes never left my face. "It seemed to originate from this area."
"Well, it didn't come from here," Aberforth said. "As you can see, there's just a sleeping baby, a tired father, and a cranky uncle who'd like to get back to his bed."
Albus was quiet for a long moment, still studying me. I kept my breathing even, my expression peaceful.
Please don't notice. Please don't—
"His magic is strong," Albus observed. "Quite strong for one so young."
"Is it?" My father tried to sound casual. "I wouldn't know. I'm a Squib, remember?"
"Yes." Albus finally looked away from me, turning to my father. "Which makes it all the more remarkable that your son appears to have such potent magical ability. The bloodline, it seems, is not as diluted as we thought."
He handed me back to my father, and I was proud of myself for not sighing in relief.
"I apologize for the late intrusion," Albus said, moving toward the door. "When one feels a magical phenomenon of that magnitude, one must investigate."
"Of course," my father said. "We understand."
Albus paused at the doorway, looking back at me one last time. "I would very much like to keep apprised of young Cillian's development. Perhaps I could visit occasionally? Simply to… observe."
Absolutely not, I thought frantically.
"We wouldn't want to impose on your time," my father said carefully. "I know how busy you are at Hogwarts—"
"Nonsense. Family is never an imposition." Albus smiled, warm and grandfatherly. "Besides, it's not often a Dumbledore child is born with such promise. I feel a certain… responsibility to ensure he's guided properly."
"We can guide our own son," Aberforth said flatly.
The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees.
"Of course," Albus said smoothly. "I meant no offense, brother. I simply wanted to offer my assistance should it be needed."
"It won't be."
The two brothers stared at each other, a silent battle of wills playing out in the space between them.
Finally, Albus inclined his head. "Very well. But the offer stands. Should you need anything—anything at all—please don't hesitate to contact me."
He left, and I heard him descend the stairs and Floo away.
The moment he was gone, my father sagged against the wall, still holding me. "That was…"
"Close," Aberforth finished grimly. "Too close. He suspects something."
"But he can't prove it, can he?"
"Not yet. But Albus is patient. He'll watch, he'll wait, and eventually…" Aberforth shook his head. "You need to be careful, Tom. Very careful. No more magical outbursts. No more awakenings. Keep the boy's power under wraps until he's old enough to defend himself."
"How am I supposed to do that? I'm a Squib. I can't train him in magic."
"Then I will."
Both my father and I looked at Aberforth in surprise.
"You?" my father asked.
"Someone has to. And better me than Albus. At least I won't try to turn the boy into a chess piece." Aberforth looked at me, and I saw something like respect in his eyes. "Besides, any child who can awaken the phoenix fire at one year old deserves proper training. Deserves to understand what he is and what he can do."
"Uncle Abe—"
"I'll come once a week. Sunday evenings, after the pub closes. We'll tell anyone who asks that I'm teaching the boy about his heritage, about the Dumbledore family history. Which won't be a lie—I will teach him that. But I'll also teach him control. Discretion. How to hide what he is from those who would exploit it."
My father looked down at me, then back at Aberforth. "You'd do that for us?"
"I'm doing it for him," Aberforth said, nodding toward me. "And for Ariana. She would've wanted this boy protected. Would've wanted him to have a chance at a normal life, despite his power."
"Thank you," my father said quietly. "Truly."
"Don't thank me yet. This is just the beginning." Aberforth headed for the door. "The awakening will have consequences. Others will come looking. The Ministry, perhaps. Magical creatures, drawn to the power. Maybe even darker forces, if word spreads to the wrong ears."
"What do we do?"
"We prepare. We train. And we pray that Albus's curiosity doesn't overcome his respect for boundaries." Aberforth paused at the doorway. "And Tom? Happy birthday to the boy. May it be the last birthday that terrifies the entire magical world."
He left, and my father carried me back to my crib.
"Well, Cillian," he said softly, tucking me in. "You certainly know how to make an entrance. Let's try to keep things quieter for the next birthday, shall we?"
I'll do my best, I thought. But I'm not making any promises.
After my father left, I lay in my crib and stared at the ceiling, processing everything that had happened.
The awakening. The ancient phoenixes. The gifts they'd granted me. Albus's suspicion. Aberforth's protection.
And the knowledge that I'd just announced my existence to every sensitive magical being in Britain.
Well, I thought, at least things won't be boring.
The phoenix fire hummed contentedly inside me, warm and powerful and mine.
I was one year old.
I had eternal magic, phoenix song, and ancient knowledge.
I had Aberforth as a teacher and Albus as a very dangerous observer.
And I had thirteen years before Harry Potter would arrive at Hogwarts.
Let's make them count.