The Official Narrative
Harry Potter woke up to the smell of disinfectant and the comfortable, soft mattress of the hospital wing. He was weak, exhausted, and desperately confused. The last clear memory he had was of Phoenix's cold, violet eyes commanding him to retreat, and then the terrifying voice of the face on the back of Quirrell's head. After that, only flashes of green light and a feeling of being hurled backward into darkness.
Albus Dumbledore sat beside him, smiling—a gentle, profound smile that reached his twinkling blue eyes.
"Ah, Harry. You gave us quite a scare," the Headmaster said quietly.
Dumbledore then delivered the narrative. He explained the power of Lily Potter's sacrifice—the deep, ancient magic that prevented Voldemort from touching Harry. He confirmed that Quirrell had been working for the Dark Lord, and that when Quirrell had touched Harry, the power of that ancient protection had been enough to utterly destroy Quirrell's body.
"The Stone is safe," Dumbledore concluded, his eyes resting on Harry. "It was recovered, and the danger has passed. You, young man, are a Gryffindor to the core."
Harry, still dazed by the powerful Stunning Charm Phoenix had used, merely nodded. He only half-remembered the impossible dome of light, the cold command, and the strange boy who had disappeared before the professors arrived. He glanced over and saw Ron and Hermione asleep in nearby beds, recovering from the aftershocks of the dungeon crawl.
He asked about Phoenix. Dumbledore's smile tightened slightly.
"Mr. Hellflame was found in the chamber with you, unconscious, having clearly entered to aid in your rescue after witnessing the situation," Dumbledore explained smoothly. "He received a substantial magical blow, though it was a clean one. He has been discharged. A fascinating young man, Mr. Hellflame. Fiercely loyal, if perhaps unnecessarily theatrical in his approach."
Phoenix, of course, had no need of the hospital wing. He spent the day in the privacy of his quarters, not recovering, but refining.
The Wand of Concept
The tiny, glowing Philosopher's Stone shard was now in his possession. It was a pure, stable source of transmutation and perfection. Phoenix held his simple, nineteen-inch holly wand, which had served him well but was ultimately a temporary tool.
He performed a long, complex ritual, bloodless and wandless, focused entirely by his Purified Dragon Core magic. He used his own Unicorn-enhanced blood as the conduit and the Stone shard as the ultimate, permanent core.
The tiny shard was not merely inserted; it was magically fused into the center of the holly wood, transforming the wand from a simple object of focus into a true extension of his demigod essence.
Phoenix tested it immediately. He placed the wand on his desk and commanded it with a thought. Instantly, the wand vanished and then rematerialized in his hand, appearing from a shimmer of air as if summoned from another dimension—just like the Sword of Gryffindor appearing to a worthy wizard in need. The wood now hummed with a subtle, potent power that amplified his every conceptual command. He would not use this enhanced wand in public; it was his secret weapon, his final piece of preparation for the dark years ahead.
The House Cup Revelation
The final end-of-year feast was a glittering, magnificent affair. The Great Hall was draped in Green and Silver, celebrating Slytherin's apparent victory in the House Cup. Harry, Ron, and Hermione had been awarded a huge number of last-minute points for their bravery, enough to put Gryffindor firmly in second place, but not enough to dethrone the reigning champions.
Phoenix sat at the Ravenclaw table, observing the proceedings with a small, internal smile. The House Cup was trivial, but public dominance was a useful marker.
The feast ended, and Dumbledore stood up, silencing the hall. He congratulated the other Houses before moving to the final, necessary announcement.
"There are some late additions to the points total this year," Dumbledore announced, his eyes twinkling as he looked directly at the Gryffindor table, "for acts of remarkable nerve and sheer, unadulterated magical potential."
Dumbledore awarded the points that pushed Gryffindor into second place. But then, Dumbledore cleared his throat and looked toward the Ravenclaw table, his eyes settling on the impassive figure of Phoenix.
"Finally," Dumbledore said, his voice ringing with emphasis, "I must recognize the extraordinary and unprecedented contributions of one student, a first-year whose singular brilliance, advanced magical comprehension, and continuous pursuit of forbidden knowledge has been invaluable to the entire school's academic and magical standing. To Phoenix Hellflame, for his unmatched theory on elemental transmutation and his unparalleled achievement of fifty-three consecutive perfect scores on every major examination and essay this year—I award five hundred points to Ravenclaw House."
A stunned silence fell, followed by an explosion of sound. Five hundred points was an impossible number. The Ravenclaw table erupted, screaming and cheering in absolute shock. The total was tallied instantly on the House columns, and the Great Hall's decorations instantly shimmered, turning the entire ceiling into a brilliant, electric blue.
Ravenclaw had won the House Cup.
Gryffindor cheered wildly, surprised and happy for the trio's ally. Slytherin was utterly silent, their faces a mask of bitter disbelief. Phoenix merely offered a small, curt nod to Dumbledore, showing no joy in the spectacle, only a cold acknowledgment of a strategic objective achieved.
The Summer Promise
The following morning was a blur of packing and goodbyes on the platform of Hogsmeade Station. Harry, Ron, and Hermione stood together, awaiting the arrival of the Dursleys.
Phoenix approached them, his trunk floating silently beside him. He carried the aura of someone entirely untroubled by the previous night's magical cataclysm.
"Weasley, Granger. Potter," Phoenix said simply. "You performed your roles adequately. I require you both to spend the summer cultivating your knowledge and strategic thinking, not wasting it on trivial pursuits."
"We will," Hermione promised, looking at him with immense respect.
Ron, meanwhile, looked nervous. "So... you're off then, Phoenix?"
Phoenix paused, his violet eyes resting on Harry. "My summer is dedicated to mastery. However, your concept of adventure is clearly limited, Potter. I reside on a private island for the summer. It has features and secrets that far eclipse this castle. I may find it necessary to summon the three of you for a week. A distraction. A true demonstration of magic beyond textbook incantations."
Harry's eyes widened with hope, quickly looking at Ron and Hermione, whose faces reflected the same wild excitement.
"You mean it? An adventure?" Harry asked.
"I am a master of concepts, not empty promises," Phoenix stated. "Do not expect comfort. Expect... training." He gave a curt, final nod. "Farewell."
With that, Phoenix turned and walked with a swift, purposeful stride toward his private, waiting conveyance, leaving the trio reeling with anticipation.
Just then, a furious, purple face appeared at the gate. It was Uncle Vernon, looking angrier than ever to see Harry standing next to two other wizards and carrying an owl cage.
"There he is, Mom, there he is, look!" squealed Ginny Weasley, Ron's younger sister, pointing at Harry.
"Ready, are you?" Uncle Vernon bellowed, his voice dripping with venom. "Hurry up, boy, we haven't got all day."
Harry looked back at his friends, a genuine grin—the first in months—creeping across his face.
"See you over the summer, then," Harry said, the thought of Phoenix's promised, impossible adventure already a brilliant light against the impending darkness of Privet Drive.
He walked toward his infuriated, terrified relatives, carrying his owl and his secrets, ready for the long wait until his next, inevitable confrontation with the world.