Memoirs of the Lonely Phoenix I have risen once and I have fallen twice. I was the first of many, a progenitor, a prophet according to some. I was told I could set my foot atop the heads of kings, to unleash a storm upon the metal kingdoms and bring forth a lush overgrowth of forests. Such lofty goals were alluring, but it was not a path I chose to follow. Not once did I step forth however, for I was struck down before I was given a chance to soar. When the flock went towards their palaces in heaven, I was left clinging to my shell. Hunters held a bounty for my yolk, a cup forever refilled as a precious source of eternal youth. I was traded and shuffled in the back alleys of lowly passages, my treasured form hounded by a pack of hungry wolves. I yearned to see the bright sunshine of the noonday, yet in darkness I remained. Soon the ruffles ceased, as did the pain. The lives that I saved no longer wanted me, I was rescued or perhaps abandoned somewhere. It was cold and by that point, I was too tired to want to put in the effort to be reborn again. I wanted nothing more than to be rid of everything, but I could not merely cease. So instead I slept. For how long, I cannot tell from within these confines. It must have been eons, for my sense of self began to lay dormant. It was time for another to take my position as a wanderer of this world. No matter, I enjoy sleeping, continuing it only seems natural. Many times have I risen and many times I have fallen. The whispers in the corridors of my mind spoke of me being the fourth generation. I heeded the fragmented directions that had been perfected over the ages: to tuck in my wings so I could blend in with humans, to hold my chest up high while keeping my fire at bay. Nothing else mattered, so I was free to roam. Small capsules of history dotted across the land revealed that my prior selves had unfulfilled lives. I set out to do the opposite, a comfortable existence was all that I strived for. The cogs of the tall woodwork clocks were the new talk of the town. It wasn't long ago when the men and giants rode in droves on their carriages, bringing prosperity to this once humble place. And yet I largely kept to myself, speaking to the passing birds when few others bothered to notice. I learned to live with that however, the warm sip of tea on quiet mornings was more than enough to satisfy me. And yet, life always finds a way to grip you into the trenches of something grander, subtle, elegant but profound nonetheless. I met her at a lowly pub, she wore a long, satin gown with a white sash around her waist. She smiled and I grinned back. I was quite unremarkable, yet for some puzzling reason she took a liking to me. We continued to talk, and continued to meet for many an hour and in numerous places. And with every encounter our hearts danced a little bit more. I soon fell into her warm embrace, my lips locked with hers. She looked into my eyes one radiant dawn and asked if she could stay by my side forever. I said yes without a shadow of a doubt. At that moment, I wished for a power only mortals possessed. Such a union was set up for heartbreak, but my heart knew not then nor did it care. I loved her. Even if only for a fleeting moment I wanted nothing more than to spend as much of my life as I could with her. We sang the songs of the air and flame, and trotted through countless moonlit nights. She shared her love of exploration that brought within me a sense of wonder for the wider world, and on almost every work day we would pocket a quarter or two to fulfill our dreams of travel later in life. We nearly reached the top and bottom of the world, we sailed the vast seas and walked under groves of cherry blossoms. Every cherished moment with her, no matter how great or insignificant, made my life that much more full, my fire kindled brightly. And in our twilight years we continued to stroll in harmony. Even when her legs gave way, and her voice grew weak, we continued to waltz and sing duets in silence. Age meant nothing to me, but with enchantment I matched her face, her arms, her labored breath. Even as we grew old together, we never drifted apart. My wife, my linked partner, my better half, my dearest friend. I offered her my blood, and she knew very well who I was and what I was, but the thought of hurting me even for a single life pained her. And in her own words, she wanted to travel the vastness of the night to meet the constellations she admired in all of her years up close. And on the following dusk, when the deep orange of the sunset fell over her time worn cheeks, she left. Gods I wish I could have followed her. My heart became numb. This is the life immortals must tread, countless people gone in what seemed like mere minutes to us. I could not bear her loss, nor could I fathom going through this again with anyone else. How mortals put up with it is beyond comprehension, perhaps a shorter lifespan serves as a release to handle such pain. When am I allowed to rest? Nothing brings me joy anymore, to fill out this empty husk left behind seemed like a fool's errand. For many more grueling years I wallowed in this thought, I did not wish to connect with anyone, anything. Until at last, my soul slipped into dormancy. Sleep, at the very least, gave me the closure I wanted. Perhaps we will even cross paths once more in my dreams, I think my chained soul can reach the stars if only for a moment. I've died many times, though I picked myself back up at every chance I got. Seventh generation here, name's not important. When you're like me and you've carved a path for yourself in these streets, you learn to gain a thick skin and a knack for not fearing what's right in front of ya. And this was long before I began to listen to the voices in my head yapping about me being some kind of deathless god. After that revelation you couldn't get me to stand still. The guys before me must have had it good, yet they had let the world walk over them. As for me, I swung back with piping-hot cinders, and I wasn't afraid to bite. Living a life vexing the devils, to retreat and do it all over again. It was an endless game, one that scratched an inch that few other jobs could satisfy. Bounties and heists were all the same to me, I cared not for any moral high ground. As word spread of my successful hunts, all matters of men and Wile came pleading on their knees. But I only bent towards the most rewarding gigs, nothing else was worth my time. Save for… kids who needed help finding their mothers, or nice old ladies who had their sole treasure stolen, or people who stopped to offer kindness knowing damn well who I was without expecting anything in return. I couldn't say no to them, even providing my services free of charge in these cases. While I lived in infamy by and large, some within the wider community spoke kindly of me and what I've done for them. It wasn't much, but it felt good. So long as I avoided the eyes of hogs and white suited gents, there was little that stood against me. And yet thanks to them, I couldn't dawdle in any one place for too long. I sometimes had thoughts of what it would be like to settle down with a burly, yet tender man who wanted to stick around with whatever I was. I guess it will remain a pipe dream, such a high stakes profession demanded I be on the move. And I still loved and rolled with it in spite of it all. No one stood a chance against me, yet I applauded their repeated efforts. The thugs would soon be creative with their attempts however, for they caught wind that I wasn't immune to pain. My job steadily became much harder, that alone made me hesitant to press on. The days began to blur, how long has it been since the thrills had lost their luster? My passion faded with every new mission, and I couldn't understand why. My hesitation led to my downfall, that I'm most certain of. Had I not tripped and fallen into that explosive, it would have passed through me harmlessly like it normally did. My mind suddenly slipped out of my control, the nails of my soul clung on in desperation. How could this have happened?! I can only become dormant of my own volition, right? Why did I succumb to it then?! I'm not finished yet!!! I screamed at the top of my lungs. Yet what's left of my body uttered not a single sound. As I sunk deeper into the abyss, I reflected on everything, and all that I should have done. There was so much I took for granted, so much I had missed, so many things I fell short of experiencing for myself. I never got to feel warmth up close, nor spend my days on things that actually mattered. I won't truly die, I know that now. But I hope the life that follows won't fall into the same trappings mine had. I'm not ready to become fully dormant yet, I'll show them myself if I have to. I’m the eighth and current generation, and I don't have much to share from the relatively short time I've been here. I hatched scared according to Hayden, seventh gen for clarification. I mean, I don't know how it was for them, but the voices in my head were loud in the beginning, which led to a skewed first impression of the world. Despite all that, I'm enjoying my time here so far. Sure life is not without its headaches, and boy was that ever apparent just a few years back. But I met many cool folks who helped me along the way, and I'm thankful to have them as lifelong friends. I broke the curse of lonely phoenix Wiles it seems, that much I can say. I still have no idea what I want to do with my life, and I'll take as long as I need to figure that out. In the meantime I want to focus on the little things that spark joy in my heart. Like the melon bread that's worth the trip to the other side of town, or the crisp smells of the fireplace on a frigid winter’s night. I met a friend who might become something more, the best moments I have so far have been with him. My heart skipped a bit when we held hands for the first time. Here's to many more moments like this. Maybe I'll be a poet like fourth gen, or work hard to make people smile like six did. I want to make seven proud, I know a little flame lights up in my eyes from him still. Wherever I'll wind up, I know I'll be ready. Whether grand things await me, or a simple ordinary life, my only wish is to have cherished moments throughout. And to share it with anyone who cares to join me in this little journey of mine.trophytrophyFather Of Hundred WretchesAnd all of them had gathered around, all the immature and ugly, all the wicked without identity. They were a sad lot but persistent and they had remained in this polluted land waiting for this day to come. Decades ago they lost their purpose, roaming these forlorn streets like dead spirits that didn't know how to move on. This was their empire, built by their father from steel and cogs and springs. The sky above them had lost its brightness permanently, stained black by coal. The sun and moon and stars had stopped visiting the town a long time ago, repelled by the pollution of the different machines and factories that operated on a daily basis. This was the home of these poor wretches and there was absolutely no one who loved them. “Daddy! Daddy!” Their moans filled the air of the town of misery, sounding so extremely haunting that it would disturb even the bravest. They marched through the streets like veins of filth upon the paved ground. One could easily find their appearances pitiful, for they had been mutilated and molded into something unnatural. But these were the unholy children of the father, such a bond would never break. Some of the wretches had mutated into beings that barely resembled a human anymore, having either too few or too many limbs. Some had even grown spikes on their bodies. But mostly they had crudely become half man, half machine. A black metal now tarnished their grotesque bodies, replacing parts of them with varied severity. Limbs, organs, patches of skin… Some had a clockwork running their rotten brains. They were absolutely hideous, an insult to mother nature. And yet, they existed and had become part of this world. The little wretches had all got drawn to a mansion at the edge of town, summoned by a mysterious force, almost like telepathy that connected their fragmented minds. There hadn't been much going on inside their skulls during their miserable pointless lives, but this was something that had ignited some sort of thoughts and even longing. They were all part of something bigger; they knew this deep down in their rotten souls, but since their creation, since their rebirth, they hadn't been quite complete yet to be useful in the grand scheme of things. They knew nothing but loneliness and violence, but now, they could sense that things were about to change, that they would learn something else – but what, they didn't know yet. It was almost impossible to tell, but as the wretches were joining together, it had become nighttime. The sky was even more black than usual and made it look like their little polluted town was floating in the middle of a void where there was no escape from. The darkness was somewhat cast away by the lamps powered by electricity, but even in their illumination the town was dim. On the courtyard where the wretches were gathering, a cluster of lamp posts that had been carefully crafted into black pieces of art were surrounding the area, offering light for the grandest celebration the most miserable dwellers of the town had ever participated in. While the whole town was vastly in a state of decay and disrepair, the mansion appeared surprisingly well kept. The pavement in front of the building was still in good condition and the flower beds had actually been taken care of. They were blooming, thriving, unlike anything else in the town. But how could they possibly flourish in a place that hadn't been graced by sun in a lifetime? And yet, they did, blossoming in black and purple and white, as if mocking the rest of the plant world for being able to do this while everything else was withering. Perhaps it was one of the father's achievements as well. “Daddy! Daddy!” The creatures of filth and sin were crying out in front of the great building that had once been the home of their father. Still it appeared as a place suitable enough for the country's elite to wine and dine in. The mansion was black, like drenched in ink. But it had a grand design, all the windowsills and the one magnificent balcony on the front were beautifully shaped. Even after the passing of father, it still retained the look of belonging to a wealthy and successful man. It wasn't abandoned at all, no, somebody else had taken it as their home. The door on the balcony slowly opened and forth came a figure. Somebody who appeared as a young man even though they had already lived decades, just another testimony of the father's brilliance. His right eye, part of skull, the whole contents of his chest and right arm and hand had been replaced by the black metal. This was the first son of the father and the only one who was his own flesh and blood. And still he had made him part machine, perhaps to prolong his life, loving him too much to let go. But alas, it was the father himself who had lost his life. All that was left behind was his heart. Right at that moment, the first son was holding this heart in his hands. He stepped forward on the balcony, to be closer to the crowd that had gathered on the courtyard. He raised the heart above his head with both hands, holding it up for all the wretches to see. They cheered loudly after catching a glimpse of this one and only piece that was left of their father. The heart was still beating, although slowly. It almost looked like a normal human heart, but it had turned black. Perhaps by coal, perhaps by his own design. But to the wretches this was the most precious relic, it was the one thing that connected them. They would even be prepared to die for it if they had to. “Brothers!” the first son shouted loudly, his voice carrying into the ears of the wretches, and they suddenly went silent. “We were left with the ultimate sorrow when those beasts that called themselves righteous slayed our dear father. In the end, after all these decades, nothing was left of him except his heart – and his greatest work yet.” The first son paused his speech for a moment and lowered the heart to look at it fondly. He had taken care of it all these years, so this day would finally come. Then he returned his attention to the crowd and they were hungry to hear more, he and the heart were their full focus. It was almost like their brains were working as one, like cogs in a machine. And the first son started to speak again: “I took it as my responsibility to care for our father's heart, to ensure his legacy was safe. Most of you don't know this, but our father was working on something grandeur that was then left unfinished when he passed away. I believed it was my sacred duty to continue our father's work and I studied his notes with utmost care. And I understood them, our father's ingenuity, I could claim his visions as mine. I continued his work where he left it, but it truly was a tough one. It took me decades to finish what he had started, but I did it! And because of this, my dear brothers, we have gathered here tonight. Our father shall live once more!” The group of wretches cheered again, this time even louder, and their bellow was heard by the whole town. The first son disappeared back into the mansion with the heart while the crowd of the mutilated ones were left to wait. Their excitement was immeasurable, but they were patient. After all, they had already waited for years. And then, finally, their wait was over. The wretches were practically screeching from joy, their voices distorted when they saw the main entrance of the mansion creaking open. From the dark bowels of the grand building came forth a figure, one completely made of black metal. The wretches hadn't seen this form before, but they knew who it was. This person marched out of the mansion with heavy steps and walked closer to the crowd, the light of the lamps shining on his black metal body. He was twice as tall as a regular man and all his plates of metal had been carefully crafted to perfection. He had the head of a hawk with shiny blue eyes and there were other bird-like details in his body, such as talons on his feet and hands and wings on his back. And in the exposed metal ribcage, a black heart was beating; the heart of the father. After all these years, they had got their father back, in the form of a metal deity. He had seen the awfulness of the mankind who had forgotten their god. Disgusted, the father had then begun to build a new god for people, something real they could pray to. A machine was perfect for this, for it was something that would not get bewildered by human emotions. And its body would last the tides of time, the fangs that would normally gnaw at the bodies of mortals would be deflected by the perfect metal shell. These were the visions the father had been guided by when he started to work on creating a new deity for this broken world, but he had never thought that he would be the one to give his machinery the consciousness. But so it happened after the first son had inserted his heart into the machine. There was no more flesh on his body, no more blood running through his veins. Physical human weaknesses didn't apply to him anymore, except maybe the heart, the only organ he still had, his very core. He was a perfect organism, god of metal and steam. But a machine can't show fondness, can't bring warmth through a mere touch. As the father stood there by the entrance of his mansion, in this moment of reincarnation, he felt proud for his children, especially for the first son. But alas, he couldn't show this for all these miserable little beings he had disfigured, he couldn't show any emotion at all. He could just look at them all and feel the pride in his core. The first son had appeared by his side, a loving expression on his face as he looked directly at the metal structure that was now hosted by the father's consciousness. “Welcome back, father. We missed you.” Shifting his gaze from the crowd of wretches to the first son, the father replied with a metallic sound: “I didn't expect to become a living being anymore. But your love has brought me back from the dead, in a greater form than when I was killed. My son, I am proud of you; you did a magnificent job at completing my last project.” The first son gave him a respectful bow and said: “I appreciate your words, father, with all my heart. I simply couldn't stand your unjust death. I did what I had to.” “You have my gratitude.” The father then looked at the wretches again. If he could smile, he would be doing it right now while observing the beings he had personally turned into these hideous abominations that were against human nature. So royally he had wrecked their brains that they thought of him as a holy figure, feeling affection rather than resentment. It was just one more thing he had succeeded at. And now, his brilliant mind had returned into this world. Tonight, a new era shall begin, and he, as the deity of the machine, would bring forth a better future and make people believe again.trophytrophygifFor Better or Worse (2025 November Art Challenge)Death was hardly ever thought about or something to be concerned with. At least for M45P18, (or “MP” for short). It was hard to comprehend what it even meant for robots. Humans had theories about afterlife’s and omnipresent gods to please. Families and friends they could be leaving behind. Opportunities that were missed or fun times never to be experienced again. Even all the emotions that could come from something else dying. Alas, a robots only function is to work, then to recharge their battery. There’s no need for any extra function’s not related to work. Emotions, connections, worries, exhaustion- that’ll just interrupt work. A worker bot that can’t work is just a useless waste of good metal. So why was MP and all the older worker models going to be incinerated? MP pondered this to themselves, while staring out of the garbage truck window. They watched all the same looking buildings go by. Sleek white tall skyscrapers on top of sleek white metal ground. All fenced away from what lays underneath. (The fence’s were painted white too, of course.) Everything almost melted together in a way. MP’s programming never prepared them to face something like this. One minute, MP was installing new beige flooring to go with the freshly painted beige walls. That also was to go with the beige furniture and wall fans. The next minute, their work is interrupted and they’re scooped away onto this very truck. MP owner’s probably got a newer model to replace them. They might have been over a decade old, but MP could work just as good as those newer models. Come to think of it, the other older models still could too. There was no need for any replacements. MP’s programming didn’t allow them to do much, feel much or even say anything. Even if they could speak, what would it even do? Who would listen to a useless hunk of metal? Nobody. So, they just kept staring out the window. The truck swerved at a rapid pace, going from left to right, one direction to the next. It was like this ever since MP was thrown in. However, it felt oddly smooth for a few seconds. Almost like a brief sense of, (what humans would call), calm. Suddenly the truck began to violently spin, crashing off the road. Before it flipped a couple times more, launching right into the white fence. All the robots were shaken all over the place. Being thrown from one side to the next. MP was no exception, being launched onto the very back. That wasn’t the very end the things. Almost like a cruel joke, the garbage truck’s back door opened. Sending all the robots into the dark bottomless pit below. MP fell helplessly into the void, watching as everything got darker and darker. So this was it huh? This was going to be MP’s fate. Not an incineration, just falling into an endless pit. This felt like a crueler fate than being burnt away. But what else was there to do but wait for the inevitable end? It was a long way down before MP smashed onto what seemed to be ground. It was hard to tell in all the darkness. They were crushed into a million pieces. MP’s broken parts launched everywhere. Everything was dark for a good while. It almost felt like hours were passing by. Then a warm light cut through the darkness. It glowed ever so slightly. MP was entranced by it, quickly grabbing it. They opened their hand, letting the light back out. Their hand suddenly appeared more.. doughy. MP stared in awe before the light got brighter and brighter. Quickly it consumed everything. MP quickly jolted awake, almost stumbling to the ground. Their vision spun around at everything. The bed they were lying on, the bedroom they were apparently in. These new colors were also mesmerizing. MP had never seen colors like these before. They were so.. bright. Something else caught the corner of MP’s vision too. A long mirror. MP stared at their reflection, instead of a tall metallic sleek white robot, was a small child. One that looked to be about eleven-ish. Big eyes, flushed cheeks and short messy hair.They were rebuilt obviously, but why as a human? MP slipped off the green blanket, looking at the long night gown and pants covering them up. They lifted up the nightgown, noticing a large bandage wrapped around their chest. Looking in the mirror again, there was a huge one wrapped around their head. Actually it seemed like there was bandages all over MP’s body. Lots of tiny bandages on their short arms and tiny legs. All hidden underneath their clothes. MP’s hands were tightly wrapped as well. All of them were painted with these brown blotches too. Curiously, MP slide their hands under the bandage on their head. They felt this odd, crusty dry patch. It let out this awful sensation, making them pull away. That patch felt horrible and extremely uncomfortable. It hurt. For the first time ever, MP began to panic. Their palms began to sweat, their body began to violently shake, the room began to spin. They were practically gasping for air. This was far beyond just advanced programming. Could they really be human? But, it can’t be? How? MP closed their eyes really tight, waiting for this all to end. The sound footsteps interrupted MP’s episode. It was hushed at first, before getting closer and closer. Alarmed, they jumped under the blanket then curled up into a small ball. Maybe this was all just some sort of malfunction; a dream? Was this a hell for robots? The door opened. A smaller figure stepped into the bedroom, placing a tray on a dresser. The figure peered over the bed, slowly pulling away the blanket. MP felt the figure staring over them. Slowly MP opened their eyes, staring back. It was a tiny old lady. She was hunched over, and covered with a large crochet cloak. “Are you alright dear?” She asked, her voice was quiet yet raspy. MP grabbed their pillow, shoving it over their head. The old lady chuckled. “You don’t need to be afraid of me. I don’t bite.” She sat on the bed, beside MP. “I found you scratched up, lying in a small puddle outside my garden. You poor thing, I’m sure you’ve been through so much. You’re a very long way from town. I’m sure your parents are worried sick about you.” MP took the pillow of their head, slowly getting up. They draped the blanket over themselves, mimicking the old lady’s cloak. “You do come from town, correct?” The old woman asked. MP tried to speak at first, but only a small squeak came out. They were about to try again but a sense of shyness washed over them. So they just shook their head instead. “My gosh, where do you come from?”MP paused, this threw them for a loop. They had never been questioned before. MP thought for a minute, really pondering the question. What could they try to say that would make sense to this human being? Something that could explain the strangely complex circumstances they were experiencing. MP had absolutely no clue so they just shrugged. The old woman grabbed the food tray and brought it over to MP. “Why don’t you drink some water and have something to eat? I’m sure that’ll jog your memory. I have some bread and a nice sweet persimmon for you.” MP stared down at the nice tray of food. They awkwardly poked at the water. They nearly jumped up in disgust. “It’s just water dear.” The old woman looked rather confused. MP thought back to how they saw their owners drink water. Trying to act from memory, they grabbed the cup, and took a big gulp. MP’s face twisted as they swallowed. Maybe they’ll have better luck with the Persimmon. They grabbed it, inspected it before eventually taking big bite. It was very squishy but really sweet. MP ate the whole thing in a matter of seconds. “It’s good right? I loved to eat them when I was your age.” MP nodded, now taking a large bite of the bread. “How’s your memory now?” She asked again. MP stared for a minute, still trying to find a good honest answer to such a question. Instead of trying to find any, they just shrugged again. The old lady thought for a moment. “Why don’t you stay with me for a while? At least until your memory comes back. Then, I’ll return you back to wherever you came from. For now, I could use extra help in the garden.” MP gobbled down the rest of their bread, before just nodding. “Do you at least remember your name?”MP knew they couldn’t be silent forever. They took a deep breath, about to sound out their name. Instead something else slipped out their tongue. “P…Per..Per-simmon?” “Your name is Persimmon?” The old lady repeated. It wasn’t what they were intending to say, but it wasn’t such a bad name either. MP, now Persimmon hesitantly nodded. “Well no wonder you like the fruit so much. I’m Rhubarb, it’s nice to meet you Persimmon.” Persimmon replied with a small smile. Persimmon spent the next couple of days learning how to garden. Picking fruit and watering plants. With every plant name Rhubarb told Persimmon, they tried to sound it out. Rhubarb also checked their bandages, slowly tending to their scabs until they went away. Days grew into weeks. Weeks grew then grew into months. Overtime Persimmon learned how to do lots of things besides gardening. Speaking, baking, sewing, reading, and much more. They were even given their own crocheted cloak by Rhubarb. Persimmon learned of all the new colors. All the shades of brown dirt, the pinkish blue sunsets, the purples in lavender plants. The textures too, all the delicate blades of grass and the harsh spikes of roses. It was all so dazzling. Time had also lent itself to forgetfulness. The days of a past robotic life became murkier slowly yet surely. Eventually it turned from a distant memory into a forgotten dream. The missing pieces to a forgotten puzzle. Being human was no longer something foreign. For better or worse, It was now the only thing Persimmon knew.trophytrophytrophytrophygifFeathers for Mr. OllivandersDiagon Alley. The most bustling street you'll ever find in the Wizarding Britain located in London. Inside his shop, Mr. Ollivander was currently in his office, counting today's haul. Admittedly, it wasn't a lot which was typical in days not preceding that year's Hogwarts semester. But as a registered wandmaker, he does receive allowances from the Ministry of Magic to cover his needs. Suddenly, he heard someone knocking on the door. Come in. Mr. Ollivander said gently. The door opened to reveal a wizard in his mid-twenties, dressed from top to bottom in silky red robes with a white trim. Sorry if I'm a bit late. The man said in an exhausted. No, not at all Mr. Grint. Now, let's see what you have in store for me. Although wandmakers have rightfully been called as debonair adventurers going to the far-flung places on Earth in search for wandcore ingredients, it's not unheard for them to employ volunteers for the task instead. Kevin Grint was one of them and has served as a gatherer for Mr. Ollivander for nearly a decade. Now then, here's what got for you today. 6 dragon heartstrings and 10 unicorn tail-hairs. Kevin said as he put sacks containing the ingredients on Mr. Ollivander's table. And phoenix feathers, do you have those by any chance? Ollivanders asked. As a matter of fact I do. I was in Hogsmeade, you see and happened to stumble upon one Professor Dumbledore from Hogwarts. He had a pet phoenix with him which he called Fawkes. Sensing an opportunity, I decided to ask the good professor if he would mind having the phoenix donate some feathers and being the good sport that he was, he absolutely didn't mind one bit. But here's where it gets interesting. Kevin put an another sack on the table before continuing. Instead of just one feather, Fawkes donated two. A rare event wouln't you agree? You could say the wands that will be made from those are like brothers. Mr. Ollivander looked at the sack containing the feathers with a ponderous gaze. Very intriguing. Two feathers from the same specimen. Since the wand choose the wizard, I can predict great yet terrible things from these. Ollivander said. I guess it always depends on the wizard. Now, if that'll be all, I'll have my commission and retire to the Leaking Cauldron for the night. Yes, yes, I think that would be the correct course of action. I just couldn't help but to sense a great destiny for the wands that will be made from these cores. Mahogany, or yew. I think that's it. And the other one shall be from holly, supple and must be... Kevin couldn't help but to roll his eyes. Mr. Ollivander was not an old man yet and yet he already rambles like one. Or was this common with wandmakers in general? He couldn't tell. In any case, he sure wished for a pair of earmuffs. Are you done? My commission if you please... Ah yes, of course. I was just getting carried away. Here it is, just a second. Mr. Ollivander gave Kevin a sack containing his commission. After exhanging goodbyes, Kevin Grint headed towards Leaky Cauldron for the night.gif