I was two weeks old when my father made the call that would change everything.
Well, "call" wasn't quite the right word. Wizards didn't use telephones—too much magic interference, or so I'd read in my previous life. Instead, my father used the pub's fireplace, throwing in some Floo powder and sticking his head into the emerald flames.
I knew this because my mother had brought me downstairs that evening, letting me observe the pub from my carrier while she helped with the dinner rush. The Crossroads was surprisingly busy for a Thursday night—a mix of Muggles enjoying their pints and wizards trying to pretend they weren't staring at the Muggle football match on the television.
"Tom, dear, can you watch him for a moment?" Margaret called to my father, balancing three plates of fish and chips. "Table seven needs their order."
"Of course," my father said, wiping down the bar. He came over and picked up my carrier, setting it on the bar top where he could keep an eye on me while he worked.
I did my best to look like a normal, sleepy baby. It wasn't hard—I was actually tired. Apparently, trying to manipulate magical energy all day was exhausting, even when you were mostly unsuccessful.
The evening wore on. Customers came and went. A witch in the corner made her tea stir itself, and a Muggle two tables over didn't even notice. My mother laughed at someone's joke. My father pulled pints with practiced efficiency.
It was… peaceful. Normal. The kind of domestic scene that I'd never really appreciated in my previous life.
Then closing time came, and everything changed.
"Last call!" my father announced, and the remaining customers began settling their tabs. My mother started cleaning tables, humming softly to herself. Within thirty minutes, The Crossroads was empty except for family.
"I'll get him to bed," Margaret said, reaching for my carrier.
"Actually…" My father hesitated, his hand resting on the bar. "I need to make a call first. Would you mind if I… if I talked to him while I did?"
My mother paused, studying his face. "Tom, what's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong. I just…" He ran a hand through his graying hair. "I need to talk to my uncle. About the baby."
Uncle, I thought, my mind racing. Which uncle? Please not Albus. Not yet. I'm not ready for—
"Aberforth?" my mother asked gently.
Oh thank God.
"Yes," my father said quietly. "I need his advice about something."
Margaret looked between my father and me, then nodded slowly. "Alright. I'll finish cleaning up. Take your time."
She kissed my father's cheek, then mine, before heading into the back.
My father waited until she was gone, then picked up my carrier and walked to the fireplace. He set me down carefully on the hearth—far enough from the flames to be safe but close enough that I could see.
"This is important," he told me, as if I could understand. Which, ironically, I could. "I need you to be good, alright? No crying."
I'll do my best, I thought. But I'm a baby. Babies cry. That's kind of our thing.
My father took a pinch of Floo powder from the pot on the mantle. His hand shook slightly as he threw it into the fire.
"The Hog's Head, Hogsmeade!" he said clearly.
The flames turned emerald green, and my father knelt down, sticking his head into the fireplace.
There was a moment of silence. Then:
"Aberforth Dumbledore speaking." The voice was gruff, impatient. "This better be important. I've got a bar to run."
"Uncle Abe," my father said, and I could hear the nervousness in his voice. "It's Thomas. Thomas Dumbledore."
Another pause, longer this time.
"Tom?" The gruffness softened slightly. "Haven't heard from you in… what, five years? Six?"
"Seven," my father said quietly. "Not since the wedding."
"Right. The wedding." Aberforth's tone was carefully neutral. "Married that Muggle girl. Margaret, wasn't it?"
"Yes. We… we have a son now. Born two weeks ago."
I heard what might have been a grunt of acknowledgment. "Congratulations. That why you're calling? To announce the birth?"
"No. I mean, yes, but that's not—" My father took a breath. "Uncle Abe, I need to ask you something. About the baby."
"What about him?"
"He's magical."
"Well, that's good news, isn't it?" Aberforth said, though there was a new edge to his voice. "Thought your line had gone all Squib. Your father was a Squib, your grandfather, your—"
"I know," my father interrupted. "Three generations of Squibs. I know. But my son… Uncle Abe, I felt it. The magic. It's strong. Stronger than it should be for a newborn."
There was a long silence.
"How strong?" Aberforth finally asked, and the casual tone was gone entirely.
"Last week, one of the charmed snitches I'd put up as a mobile—it got disrupted. The charm just… broke. And he was the only one in the room."
"Could've been faulty spellwork."
"It wasn't. I checked. Triple-checked. The charm was perfect." My father's voice dropped lower. "And today, I saw him do it again. Made a spoon move. Just a little, just a wobble, but he was looking at it when it happened. And he's two weeks old, Abe. Two weeks."
Another long silence. I kept perfectly still in my carrier, not even daring to breathe too loudly.
"That's…" Aberforth's voice was measured, careful. "That's unusual."
"It's more than unusual. It's—" My father struggled for words. "Uncle Abe, I need to know. Is this… is this a Dumbledore thing? Did Albus show signs this early? Or you?"
"No." The answer was immediate and definitive. "Albus was powerful, even as a child, but not at two weeks. At that age, he was just a baby like any other. I was the same."
"Then what does it mean?"
"Could mean a lot of things." I could almost hear Aberforth thinking. "Could be he's just naturally powerful. Could be something in your wife's line—Muggles don't have magic, but sometimes the blood mixing creates something unexpected. Or…"
"Or what?"
"Or he's got something from the old bloodline. The real Dumbledore power."
My father's breath caught. "The phoenix fire."
"Aye. That."
I felt my own metaphorical breath catch. They knew. The Dumbledores knew about the phoenix power. Of course they did—it was their bloodline, their legacy.
"But that's just a story," my father said, though he sounded uncertain. "A legend. I thought—"
"It's not a legend, Tom. It's real. Or it was, once upon a time." Aberforth's voice carried the weight of old memories. "Our great-great-grandfather could call it forth. Phoenix fire, phoenix song, phoenix loyalty. Made him one of the most powerful wizards of his age."
"What happened to it?"
"Diluted. Bred out. Happens with bloodline powers if they're not carefully maintained." Aberforth paused. "Our father had a touch of it. Not much, but enough that he could feel it there, just out of reach. Drove him half-mad, knowing he had this power he couldn't access."
"And Albus?"
"Albus knows about it. Studied it for years, trying to figure out how to awaken it. Never could." There was something bitter in Aberforth's laugh. "For all his genius, for all his power, he never managed to manifest the old bloodline gift. It's just… gone. Lost."
"But if my son has strong magic this early…"
"Then maybe it's not as lost as we thought." Aberforth's tone shifted, became more serious. "Tom, listen to me. If your boy really does have the phoenix fire in him, if he can awaken it… you need to be careful. Very careful."
"Careful how?"
"The magical world doesn't like power it can't control. And a Dumbledore with the old bloodline gift awakened? That's the kind of power that makes people nervous. Makes them ask questions. Makes them interfere."
My father was quiet for a long moment. "You think Albus would interfere?"
"I think Albus would be interested. Very interested." Aberforth's voice was dry. "And you know how my brother gets when he's interested in something. He starts planning, orchestrating, moving pieces on his chessboard."
"I don't want that for my son."
"Then don't tell him. Not yet. Not until the boy's old enough to make his own choices."
"But you—"
"I'm not Albus," Aberforth cut him off. "I don't meddle. Don't scheme. I run my bar, I live my life, and I stay the hell out of other people's business. Your secret's safe with me."
I could hear the relief in my father's voice. "Thank you, Uncle Abe."
"Don't thank me yet. Just… be smart about this, Tom. Watch the boy. Teach him to control it if you can. And when he's old enough, when he understands what he is… then you can decide whether to bring Albus into it."
"I will."
"Good. Now, was there anything else? Because I've got a drunk goat making eyes at my best whiskey, and I need to deal with that before he breaks another bottle."
My father laughed, some of the tension leaving his voice. "Actually, yes. One more thing. We haven't named him yet. Margaret and I keep going back and forth, and I thought… I thought maybe you could help."
"Me? I'm terrible with names."
"Please, Uncle Abe. You're the only family I have left who I can actually talk to. Help me give my son a name that means something. Something that honors our family without… without all the weight of everything that happened."
There was a long sigh from the fireplace. "You're not making this easy, Tom."
"I know."
More silence. Then: "Ariana used to have a favorite flower. Did I ever tell you that?"
My father's voice softened. "No. You never did."
"Periwinkles. Little purple things. She'd gather them in the garden, make crowns out of them. Used to say they were magic flowers, because they stayed blue-purple no matter what season it was." Aberforth's voice was distant, lost in memory. "After she died, I couldn't look at them for years. But lately… lately I've been thinking they're not so bad. They remind me of the good times. Before everything went wrong."
"Uncle Abe—"
"Her favorite story was about a wizard named Percival the Periwinkle. Made-up nonsense our mother used to tell her. But she loved it. Used to ask for it every night." He cleared his throat. "I'm saying, if you want a name that honors her without being obvious about it… there's worse choices than something that means periwinkle."
I could practically hear my father's mind working. "Like… Vince? Or Perry?"
"God, no. Those are terrible." Aberforth snorted. "Look, I don't know. I'm just saying periwinkles meant something to her. To all of us, really. They grew around our house in Mould-on-the-Wold. They were part of… before."
"Before everything fell apart," my father finished quietly.
"Aye."
My father was quiet for a long moment. I could see him from my carrier, still kneeling by the fireplace, his face illuminated by the green flames.
"Thank you, Uncle Abe," he finally said. "For everything. For the advice, for the memories, for—"
"Just take care of that boy," Aberforth interrupted gruffly. "And Tom? When he's older, when he can understand… tell him about Ariana. Tell him she would've loved having another magical child in the family. She always wanted to protect the ones who were different, who didn't fit the mold."
"I will. I promise."
"Good. Now get your head out of my fireplace. You're letting the cold air in."
The connection cut off, and the flames returned to their normal orange-red. My father sat back on his heels, staring into the fire.
Then he turned to look at me.
"Did you hear all that?" he asked softly, a small smile on his face. "Of course you didn't. You're two weeks old. You probably don't understand any of this."
If only you knew, I thought.
My father reached over and gently lifted me out of the carrier, holding me carefully. "A name that means periwinkle. Something that honors her without being too obvious." He looked down at me with those familiar blue eyes. "What do you think? Any preferences?"
Please not Perry. Please not Vince. Please be something I can live with.
"Margaret loves the name Caelan," he mused. "It's Irish. Means 'slender' or 'victorious,' depending on who you ask. Not quite periwinkle, but…" He paused. "Wait. There's another Irish name. Cian. Means ancient, enduring. But the flower meanings… let me think."
He carried me over to the bookshelf behind the bar, somehow managing to hold both me and pull out a thick tome with one hand. The book was titled Magical Plants and Their Meanings.
"Let's see… periwinkle, periwinkle…" He flipped through pages. "Ah. Here. Vinca minor. Also called the 'flower of death' in some traditions because it was used in funeral wreaths, but also the 'flower of memory' because it stays green even in winter. Symbolizes enduring love, friendship, and…" He stopped, his finger on the page. "And 'pleasant memories.'"
His voice cracked slightly on those last words.
"Pleasant memories," he repeated softly. "That's what Ariana was, wasn't it? Before the tragedy, before the pain. She was joy and laughter and pleasant memories."
He looked down at me again. "But periwinkle doesn't directly translate to any name I can think of. Unless…" His eyes widened slightly. "Wait. There's a Gaelic name. Cillian. It means 'church' or 'monastery,' but it's also associated with Saint Cillian, who had periwinkle flowers growing on his grave. The flowers of memory growing in a sacred place."
I could see him turning it over in his mind.
"Cillian," he tested. "Cillian Dumbledore." He smiled. "You know, I think your mother would like that. It's Irish, like Caelan, but it carries the memory of Ariana without being too obvious. And it sounds strong. Dignified."
Cillian, I thought, testing it myself. Cillian Dumbledore.
It wasn't bad. Actually, it was pretty good. Certainly better than Humphrey or Eugene.
"What do you think?" my father asked, as if I could answer. "Do you like the name Cillian?"
In response, I did the only thing I could do—I yawned.
My father laughed, the sound warm and genuine. "I'll take that as approval. Cillian it is, then. Cillian Thomas Dumbledore, after you're born two weeks and we finally give you a proper name."
He carried me upstairs, where my mother was already getting ready for bed.
"Did you make your call?" she asked, turning to look at us.
"I did. And I have a name to suggest."
"Oh?" Margaret smiled. "Let's hear it."
"Cillian. It's Irish, means—"
"I know what it means," Margaret interrupted, her smile widening. "My grandmother was Irish. I always loved that name." She walked over and took me from my father, holding me close. "Cillian. Yes. I think that's perfect."
"Really? You don't want to think about it?"
"Tom, we've been 'thinking about it' for two weeks. At this rate, he'll be going to Hogwarts before we decide." She looked down at me. "Hello, Cillian. It's nice to finally know what to call you."
Hello, Mum, I thought back. Thanks for not naming me Humphrey.
As my parents talked quietly about middle names and when to register the birth, I found my thoughts drifting to what I'd overheard.
The phoenix fire was real. It was a Dumbledore bloodline ability that had been lost, diluted over generations. Albus knew about it but couldn't access it. Aberforth knew about it but had let it go.
And I could feel it inside me, those embers waiting to ignite.
My father had been told to keep me secret from Albus. To protect me from being another piece on the chess master's board.
That was fine with me. I had no intention of becoming anyone's pawn. Not Dumbledore's, not Voldemort's, not destiny's.
I was Cillian Dumbledore now. Born into a family of tragedy and power, raised in a liminal space between worlds, blessed with both meta-knowledge and magical potential.
And I was going to use every advantage I had to rewrite this story.
But first, I needed to figure out how to control my own bladder.
Priorities, after all.