9 ~ Captured

Time had slipped through my hands like cold water, leaving only numbness where memories should have been.

Phil's POV:

     To say that I was happy with the changes in my life would have been a lie. I felt as if I were trapped inside a prison - built of stone, a strange castle. I felt uneasy, wanted to leave this place, yet could not. Leaving the castle and this so-called hospital wing had not been explicitly forbidden to me, yet deep within I felt that I was not permitted to do so. In the eyes of the tall people I was a child. In my opinion, however, I could take care of myself well enough, I had managed it all this time.

"You must fight!" the voice said, yet I was too tired.

     I had lost everything. I had attacked my family and for what? To save the lives of three humans, yes, how touching. I hated humans, they hated me, treated creatures like me as dirt.     I lay on my side in this strange bed, the pillow on the floor because it felt wrong. My bed stood in the farthest corner of the room on the left near the closed windows and I wished to feel the fresh air. I did not belong here, it was a prison...     I was too weakened to attempt an escape, which was why I merely stared with rigid eyes at the grey blanket of clouds. The large windows revealed much of the outside world, yet there was still glass between us.      My head rested upon the mattress, my hair a tangled mass, though at least freshly combed and freed of all knots. During the past two days they had brought me fresh clothes once more and that strange Pomfrey checked on me every hour.      She had already given up trying to speak with me, since I did not answer. She could be glad that she had been allowed to touch my hair. I had not noticed, since I had been asleep.

Better for her.

     I did not understand why they kept me here. I did not belong here, had to return outside into nature. Only there was there space for me, for the monster that I was.     I kept staring at the grey sky and waited until darkness would fall or Pomfrey would return again. Each time she brought me something to eat, yet I had no hunger. Her strange drinks I had to take, however, and I noticed that they helped me, which was the only reason why I accepted them.     When I heard footsteps the next time, I thought the woman would return, yet I was wrong. The steps were accompanied by the rustle of fabric. Curious, I pulled the blanket from my head. I turned my head to the right, away from the row of windows, and discovered that old man. Today he wore a violet robe.     Calmly he remained standing at the foot of my bed. He did not intrude into my private space, which was why I sat up shortly afterwards. I slid backwards until I reached the end of my bed, pulling my legs close beneath the blanket.      The old man had his hands clasped behind his back, and after we had stared at one another for a moment, he raised his voice: "Miss Aquila."          "Phil," I corrected, since I did not understand why one should address me so formally.     "Very well, Phil. May I sit down?" he asked and nodded towards the empty bed to my right.          I merely nodded.     Slowly he walked to the bed and sat down upon the mattress, which dipped slightly beneath his weight. Once again it grew quiet and I stared stubbornly ahead at the opposite wall.

I do not want to speak, I want to leave.

     "When may I go?" was my first question.          This Dumbledore seemed surprised. "Why do you wish to leave?" he asked gently and crossed his legs, which made his robe rustle, "the forest is no place for a young witch. And that is where you seem to live, Phil, but correct me if I am mistaken. To be honest, you do not even exist within the registry of the wizarding world. Not that it surprises me."     I bit the inside of my lower lip. Yes, I lived in the forest, yet many did so.     One needed little more. A shelter, a hut, some even possessed a house. Surrounded by trees.     So I ignored the question of the old man, yet the first part interested me.          "Witch? And this castle is a school for magic, is it not?" I referred to his earlier words and shook my head. It sounded far too absurd.     "Magic exists, Phil. Why are you so surprised? In the forest live all manner of creatures, you yourself are not a normal human, are you?" he had gained my attention and I saw him raise a brow, "so why should magic not exist?"     I had no answer to his question and once more I remembered the moving staircases and those strange paintings.          "Very well, then magic exists..." I murmured. "When may I leave?"     "I cannot allow you to live alone, child. Not unless there is someone who looks after you. Someone with whom I may speak, who bears responsibility for you."     I pressed my lips together. There was no one left.          My family was gone. One dead, the other driven away.

So I truly am trapped inside a prison.

     "I can manage on my own." Once again I stared at the opposite wall, pulling my legs even closer to my chest. I swallowed the lump in my throat.          "I am aware of that, yet you are a young witch who belongs at Hogwarts."     "Why do you think that I am a witch?" I looked at him and unfortunately I was curious.          A small smile touched his lips as he answered me: "Well, because both of your parents attended Hogwarts, Phil. Your father Ethan J. Aquila as well as your mother Cathrine Young."     I was surprised that he knew my mother's name. I had not known that she had been called Young, just as my father's first name had been unfamiliar to me. Mother had never spoken about him and at some point he had vanished from our lives. Quickly my mother had found a new man at her side, which had only made everything worse.          Until the end.     "My mother is dead and my father gone. I do not care what they did," I said, and at the mention of my mother's death the old man seemed surprised. Apparently he did not know everything after all, and why should he?     Not even I wished to know everything.

"You are who you are, Phil. She could not cope with you, you carry no blame," that voice spoke deep within me and I wished I could believe it.

     "Though it may not matter to you what became of your parents, you yourself should not be of no importance to yourself," the likely wizard brought me back to reality. I looked into his bright eyes. Within his gaze I could see much, and most of all an honesty that made me uneasy.          "So I must stay here?" I whispered my question. Another lump threatened to form within my throat.     "For now, Phil, yes," the man confirmed, "you seem to know nothing of the wizarding world, yet it is a part of you. When you regain your strength, I shall tell you about your father and everything else, but you must also be honest with me. I cannot look into your mind and every story has two sides."          Slowly he rose, then inclined his head and continued: "Rest now, and when Madam Pomfrey releases you, I shall tell you everything. We shall meet again soon; we still have much to discuss."     After these words Dumbledore disappeared, once he had received nothing more than a small nod from me in response. I lay back down upon my side and stared into the grey sky.     Tears began to form and my vision blurred. I wanted to leave this place, yet after this conversation I no longer knew where I belonged. I had lost everything, lost myself, even though I had never truly found myself.

     Dumbledore did not come to visit me during the following days. Instead of him, Pomfrey tried to start conversations with me. She often explained to me why I was here; because someone had brought me into the castle after the full moon.     I already knew that.          I knew what it meant to be a werewolf.               I had always known.     I did not tell Pomfrey that, yet when she had asked whether I suffered from lycanthropy, I had looked at her in confusion. She had then explained that it was the term for being a werewolf. I had merely shrugged my shoulders.     So she had received her answer, and for a reason unknown to me she had seemed relieved.     Her mood improved even more when, two days after Dumbledore's visit, I ate a piece of cake. Some of her potions seemed to serve as a substitute for food, yet if I was already sitting in a prison, then at least with cake.     Still, it felt like betrayal. Sitting here and eating cake.          I should really have been working on my escape.

Really...

     A few days later Madam Pomfrey came to me and gave me new clothes. Dark trousers, a thick jumper and shoes. The last of these felt strange. Leather was tight, too tight. Like another prison, only for my feet.     On that day the nurse led me through the castle. It must have been morning, since no pupils of this strange school crossed our path.     The shoes constricted my feet and I felt clumsy. Pomfrey, on the other hand, clicked along ahead of me. The woman seemed to have no problem with her feet being trapped inside a leather cage.      No one seemed to have a problem with it, everyone except me.          After a short while I lost my sense of direction and after wandering about for a time we reached a tower within this castle. A strange statue in a niche caught my attention.     "That is a gargoyle," explained Madam Pomfrey and whispered something to the statue, which made me frown.     Yet when the so-called gargoyle moved and steps began to coil upwards, I stepped back. My eyes widened.     My instinct told me to flee, yet Pomfrey said something else: "At the top is Dumbledore's office. He is expecting you," she said and gestured for me to go. After staring at the staircase a while longer, I finally began to move and climbed it upwards in a spiral.

How can all of this exist?

     At the top a door awaited me, which I did not knock upon; I was expected. So I opened it and stepped into the room beyond. It was a round room that felt welcoming and spacious as well. On all the walls hung more strange paintings and within the room a fire crackled in an open fireplace. Shelves filled with many books and other objects could be seen everywhere. My eyes even discovered a sword hanging upon the wall.     While I looked around, I startled, for beside the door sat a strange bird. It was flame-coloured and I had not expected to see it.      From peculiar eyes it stared at me and I stared back at it, until I heard a deep laugh behind me, then a voice: "This is Fawkes, Phil. He will harm no one. Lately, however, he has been somewhat, well, 'unsightly' to behold. His cycle is nearing its end."          Naturally, I understood nothing.     I simply turned towards Dumbledore. He stood behind a desk and gestured for me to come to him and take a seat on the chair before him. Once I sat down, the old man also seated himself and folded his fingers upon the tabletop.     "So," he began and as always he wore his half-moon spectacles. Beneath his eyes I noticed swollen tear-bags that completed his aged appearance.     "I am glad that Madam Pomfrey has released you, and now we shall speak," said the wizard, offering me some sort of sweets, yet I refused, then he continued: "I must be honest with you, Phil, I have not discovered much about you. I can only tell you what I know. You came to Hogwarts during the last full moon. A student found you in the forest after the full moon. You must understand that this should not have happened, as there are safety precautions in place, though more on that later. I have spoken with Mister Lupin and he has agreed that I may mention his name to you in this context. You are also a werewolf, Phil, if I may be so open with you?"          I merely nodded.     "And your injuries came from a fight."          Again I nodded, for that much I knew.     "Mister Lupin carried you back to Hogwarts alone, to the hospital wing. That is the only reason why you are here - we wish only good things for you."     Well, that was not entirely true. This Lupin and his friends had found me, yet I remained silent. Dumbledore seemed to know nothing of it.

"Phil, you must hold back every piece of information. Wait for the right moment," his voice whispered within my mind and it was right. This was something I could control.

     "Then we have completed the first point on the list," said the old man and smiled.          "Which list?"     "Well, the one inside my head," he laughed briefly to lighten the mood, yet I did not smile in return, "but now to the less pleasant matters. We must speak about your family, Phil."          "W-why?"     "Because you must understand, yet you must help me. First I shall tell you what I know."     So Dumbledore told me about my parents. About my mother he knew very little, only that she had remained in his memory - kind.            My father, however, was different.     Ethan J. Aquila had reached for power until it consumed him. He had likely been bitten by a werewolf after Hogwarts, and instead of breaking beneath the curse, he had turned it into a weapon. Together with other werewolves he formed a band, raided villages, left blood wherever he appeared. Innocent people bore wounds and scars, entire families vanished in his wake.     "This happened fifteen years ago," he continued. "Then Ethan withdrew. I have dated it roughly to the time of your birth, Phil. You do not appear in the wizarding registry of the Ministry, yet there are records from St Mungo's that your mother stayed there while pregnant. What do you know of that?"     I had not thought about it for what felt like an eternity, yet I knew when my birthday was.

Does not everyone know that?

     »Eighteenth of August..., that is my birthday.«          »Very well, 18th of August 1960«, Dumbledore smiled, »the present year is 1975. Are you aware of that, Phil?«     I shrugged my shoulders. »I think so.«          Of course it was a lie, since I did not remember much.     Dumbledore seemed to suspect something, yet he told me everything he knew. For about fifteen years nothing more had been heard of my father, apart from a few clashes with the Aurors - keepers of order - and today it was assumed that he was dead.          I was utterly confused.      My life had been simple, and now I was learning so much. Although Dumbledore had only spoken of everything in a superficial manner so as not to overwhelm me at once, even that was too much for me. In my mind I knew that humans hated werewolves, yet that my father had wanted to create an entire group of them, I had not known.     It sounded dreadful, for why would one inflict such pain and torment, such a curse, upon other people? I did not understand it, yet when Dumbledore told me about my father's fascination with creating werewolves who could always transform into a wolf and keep their awareness, I remained silent.     I only knew that it was my turn to speak. To speak about myself, yet I did not know much.

I do not remember much.

     »It is uncomfortable for me to speak about it, because I know so little...«, I looked down at my feet, »It has been a long time since I, erm, h-had a real family. Most memories are gone, but I can remember a little. Of my father, as you call him, I have only a few memories, since he left Mother and me early on. We lived together in the forest, here nearby. At the other end of the forest.«          »In Hogsmeade?«     »What is Hogsmeade?«          »A small wizarding village nearby. It is a pleasant place. My students often go there on weekends. Naturally under supervision.«     »No...«, I said slowly, »I lived in the forest. Nearby there was only a tiny settlement, completely surrounded by forest. I went there only twice with my mother.«          »Then you likely mean Kirkwood, Phil«, Dumbledore nodded slowly, »Yes, yes, that fits, now that I think about it. It is a small village, completely isolated, and as you say, surrounded by the Forbidden Forest. Wizards and witches live there who wish to be alone. But please, continue.«     »E-even back then I think I knew that I was a werewolf, now I know for certain. After Father left, my mother soon found a new man. Once I ran away from home. It was a full moon«, I told him.          Dumbledore asked: »Do you know how old you were at the time, Phil?«, and I thought. In my memories I must have been perhaps twelve, a little older, and I told him so.          »Can you remember more?«     I looked at my hands and thought. When had my last memory been? My true memory?     It must have been that night, yet that could not be.

Two years...

Where had the last two years of my life gone?Had it truly been that long ago?