The Phoenix Cycle

The Phoenix Cycle: An Autobiography

By Areta Gabriel

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"Captivating! Perhaps not the most exciting of the Order memoirs to be read, but enthralling in its own right. A story of bitter loss, friendship through adversity, and the endless possibilities in life."

-- The Daily Prophet

"A book that is almost brutally honest, with no sugar-coating of what happened during the days of You-Know-Who's reign, both times. It is a story of tragic loss that too many people can relate to than I care to think about."

-- Louis Flourish, co-owner of Flourish & Blotts

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The Phoenix Cycle: An Autobiography

Books of related interest:

Woolen Socks and a Phoenix by Albus Dumbledore

The Transfiguration of the World by Minerva McGonagall

Constant Vigilance by Alastor Moody

Behind the Order by Hestia Jones

Faces of the Past by Emmeline Vance

Secrets and Betrayal by Remus Lupin

Black Metamorphagus by Nymphadora Tonks

A Useful Squib by Arabella Figg

All rights reserved. Copyright © 1998 by Areta Gabriel. This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part by any means without permission.

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Acknowledgments:

There are many people I feel indebted to, far too many to list them all here. Above all else, however, I would like to thank Remus and Kamaria, for helping me restart my life. And special thanks to Harry Potter; not only for defeating Voldemort, but for giving Lily and James a year they wouldn't have traded for the world.

To my husband, who I will never stop missing or loving; to my brother, who was my other half; and to my child, who never hand a chance.

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The Phoenix Cycle: An Autobiography

Prologue

Let me start by satisfying the curiosity of many a person by saying that I am neither remarkably pretty, nor remarkably ugly. I am quite unremarkably plain, a state that some women would despair to find themselves in, but it suits me well. I will not describe myself down to the greatest detail, nor place any pictures of myself in this book, for I do not wish to clutter this book with irrelevant information.

I simply wish to tell my tale and live my life, and let know the world that I am not powerful, nor am I a hero. The only reason I write this book is because I happened to find myself of the acquaintance of a number of special people who, in their own right, were heroes, in ways that I never could describe.

About myself, there are less than half a dozen notable facts. Or, at least, the things I find differ me from all the other witches in the world.

Of course, having written the previous sentence, I am assuming that you, the reader, are also of the magically inclined, and find such a state common.

Here, I must pause to say that I find this is not an easy thing, to write about one's life, knowing full well that the end result would be to have dozens of strangers know things of me I only prefer my close friends to know. I hope you find it in your hearts to forgive me if I do not pursue certain events of my life in detail, for I, like most people, do not find pleasure in airing my private affairs in public. The ones that are explained in detail are so for reasons that will perhaps remain unclear to you, dear reader, even at the end, but, rest assured, they are perfectly clear to me.

That being said, I shall continue without further digression...I hope.

My birth is the first of the things that are worthy of note about me. Not because of any special event, but for the fact that I came into this world right on the heels of a dark-eyed fellow named Athan. He always liked to lord over me with the fact that he was born minutes earlier, and it always used to vex me so, but I would give anything for simple problems like that again.

The second is the fact that I went to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Not only that, I was a student during those terrifying days of the first rise of Voldemort, when there was no child-hero to count on, no previous fall to draw hope from.

There was only a vague fear, and the Headmaster, Albus Dumbledore.

I cannot describe in words what the Headmaster meant to us in those days, though I rarely spoke with him on any matter. His simple presence was enough for most of us, gave us courage to go about our days without cowering in fear, let us look to the future and see more than Voldemort.

I can say with great certainty, now, that as soon as he reads this, the Headmaster will call upon me to tell me how much it made him blush. That is his way.

And yet, Headmaster, every word I wrote is nothing but the truth, and you may ask the others to prove me right, for no doubt they are all writing their own memoirs, and say similar things in them.

It makes me laugh, to think about it. There is nothing remotely interesting about me, and here I sit, writing an autobiography, simply because I am a Phoenix member. I remember the early days, and marvel at how fickle people are. From usurpers to heroes, so quickly?

But I digress, again.

At Hogwarts, I was sorted into Ravenclaw, something that pleased me to no end, and still does. My only lament arose from the fact that Athan and I was separated - he was sorted into Slytherin.

I do not know what would have become of our family and my relationship with my twin had I been Sorted into Gryffindor or Hufflepuff, nor do I wish to know.

What I do know is that I am forever grateful that I was in the neutral House, and that nothing was ever said about my association with my brother and his friends, nor his with mine.

There was nothing remarkable about my first few years at Hogwarts, but I shall skim over the details nevertheless, in later chapters.

It is suffice to say that I have been through much trials in my relatively short life. For a witch, I have just entered the prime of my life, at the height of my power (what power?), and yet I feel on my shoulders a dozen lifetime's worth of grief.

I have suffered much loss in my time, though I am not the only to have lost. Nor am I saying my loss is the worst, for it is not. My situation is certainly not the best, but it is far from being the worst, and I cling to that thought as if it were a lifeline.

For me, it is one.

In telling my tale, I do not ask for pity. I do not want it. I am telling my tale only because there are those who deserve this more than I, yet cannot tell their tales for various reasons. I dare not presume to know their lives and feelings, so I will write of my life and feelings, and show them to you through my perspective.

I can only hope I do them justice.