Natsu Dragneel and the Order of the Phoenix

The Lost Prophecy

Natsu's feet hit solid ground; his knees buckled a little and the golden wizard's head fell with are sounding dunk to the floor. He looked around and saw that he had arrived in Master Makarov's office. Everything seemed to have repaired itself during the Headmaster's absence.

The delicate silver instruments stood once more on the spindle-legged tables, puffing and whirring serenely the portraits of the headmasters and headmistresses were snoozing in their frames, heads lolling back in armchairs or against the edge of the picture. Natsu looked through the window. There was a cool line of pale green along the horizon: dawn was approaching.

The silence and the stillness, broken only by the occasional grunt or snuffle of a sleeping portrait, was unbearable to him. If his surroundings could have reflected the feelings inside him, the pictures would have been screaming in pain. He walked around the quiet, beautiful office, breathing quickly, trying not to think. But he had to think... there was no escape...It was his fault Ultear had died; it was all his fault. If he, Natsu, had not been stupid enough to fall for Acnologia's trick, if he had not been so convinced that what he had seen in his dream was real, if he had only opened his mind to the possibility that Acnologia was, as Lucy had said, banking on Natsu's love of playing the hero...

It was unbearable, he would not think about it, he could not stand it... there was a terrible hollow inside him he did not want to feel or examine, a dark hole where Ultear had been, where Ultear had vanished; he did not want to have to be alone with that great, silent space, he could not stand it –

A picture behind him gave a particularly loud grunting snore, and a cool voice said, "Ah... Natsu Dragneel..."

Phineas Nigellus gave a long yawn, stretching his arms as he surveyed Natsu out of shrewd, narrow eyes.

"And what brings you here in the early hours of the morning?" said Phineas eventually "This office is supposed to be barred to all but the rightful Headmaster. Or has Makarov sent you here? Oh, don't tell me..." He gave another shuddering yawn. "Another message for my worthless great-great-grandson?"

Natsu could not speak. A few more of the portraits had stirred now. Terror of being interrogated made Natsu stride across the room and seize the doorknob. It would not turn. He was shut in.

"I hope this means," said the corpulent, red-nosed wizard who hung on the wall behind the Headmaster's desk, "that Makarov will soon be back among us?"

Natsu turned. The wizard was surveying him with great interest. Natsu nodded. He tugged again on the doorknob behind his back, but it remained immovable.

"Oh good," said the wizard. "It has been very dull without him, very dull indeed."

He settled himself on the throne-like chair on which he had been painted and smiled benignly upon Natsu

"Makarov thinks very highly of you, as I am sure you know," he said comfortably. "Oh yes. Holds you in great esteem."

The guilt filling the whole of Natsu's chest like some monstrous, weighty parasite, now writhed and squirmed. Natsu could not stand this, he could not stand being himself any more... he had never felt more trapped inside his own head and body, never wished so intensely that he could be somebody; anybody, else...

The empty fireplace burst into emerald green flame, making Natsu leap away from the door, staring at the man spinning inside the grate. As Master Makarov's small form unfolded itself from the fire, the wizards and witches on the surrounding walls jerked awake, many of them giving cries of welcome.

"Thank you," said Master Makarov softly.

He did not look at Natsu at first, but walked over to the perch beside the door and withdrew, from an inside pocket of his robes, the tiny, ugly, featherless Fawkes, whom he placed gently on the tray of soft ashes beneath the golden post where the full-grown Fawkes usually stood.