The night after the Ministry's intrusion lay heavy over Hogwarts. The Great Hall had emptied in fits of whispering and wide-eyed speculation, and even hours later the buzz of it lingered in the corridors. Students repeated what they had seen in every variation—how the phoenix's cry had shattered Aurors without so much as brushing a single child, how Oliver had stood like stone before Umbridge, how Dumbledore's voice had cut her tirade in half like the snap of a wand.
But while the castle hummed with rumor, the Headmaster sat in silence.
In his office high above the grounds, Albus Dumbledore leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin. The lamplight caught silver in his beard as Fawkes perched beside him, the phoenix's scarlet plumage a soft glow against the shelves of books and curious trinkets.
Dumbledore's eyes were fixed not on the flames of the hearth but on the boy he pictured in memory—Oliver Night, standing in the Great Hall, shoulders squared, voice strong, his black phoenix looming over him like a guardian of old. It was not only the sight of defiance that held Dumbledore's thoughts but the undercurrent of fear beneath it. Fear not of his bird, but of losing it.
"They will return," Dumbledore murmured, more to himself than to the phoenix. "Cornelius is far too proud to leave this matter as it stands. And Dolores…" He sighed, the lines at the corners of his eyes deepening. "Dolores has found a cause she will not easily abandon."
Fawkes tilted his head, letting out a soft trill that hung like balm in the air.
"Yes, my friend," Dumbledore said, stroking the bird's neck absently. "He cannot fight them alone. Nor should he. What Oliver needs now is not only protection, but recognition. Voices that the Ministry cannot dismiss as easily as mine."
He turned, reaching for parchment and quill.
The letter took shape with deliberate care, each word chosen as though it were a stone set in a foundation.
My dearest Nicolas and Perenelle,
I write tonight with heavy heart and urgent purpose. I must inform you of events at Hogwarts that concern a young student of ours, Oliver D. Night, who has come under the attention of the Ministry in ways I cannot ignore.
Two weeks past, Oliver formed a bond with a phoenix unlike any seen in our records—black-feathered, with eyes the color of the clear sky. This creature has demonstrated intelligence and restraint beyond measure, choosing Oliver of its own will and protecting him with precision. It has never harmed an innocent child. Yet despite this, the Ministry, led by Dolores Umbridge's persuasion, sought to seize the bird by force.
Aurors entered the Great Hall at breakfast and attempted to bind the phoenix before the entire student body. The bird responded with a single cry, disabling those who cast against it, but leaving every student untouched. The Ministry's officers left battered, their case in shambles, but not without promises to return.
I fear that constant interference will harm Oliver's growth, both as a wizard and as a boy. His music, which is central to his identity and his progress here, is deeply intertwined with the bird's presence. To wound his bond is to wound the heart of what steadies him. I ask you, not as a Headmaster but as an old friend, to consider lending your voices to this matter. A word from the Flamels carries weight the Ministry cannot dismiss so lightly.
Yours in trust,Albus
Dumbledore set down the quill, exhaling. His script, though steady, seemed to sag on the page as though carrying the weight of the day. He folded the parchment, pressed the Hogwarts seal in red wax, and laid it before Fawkes.
The phoenix leaned down, talons closing gently around it.
"One more flight for you tonight, my old friend," Dumbledore said quietly.
Fawkes gave a low hum in reply, wings half-spreading.
The Flamels' home was a world away from Hogwarts, nestled in the quiet hills of France where the air smelled of lavender and stone warmed by the sun. Within its walls, Nicolas and Perenelle Flamel shared their days in gentle rhythm—books stacked high, bubbling cauldrons simmering with soft glows, a garden alive with herbs rare and ancient.
That rhythm shattered when Fawkes burst into their study in a bloom of fire.
Perenelle gasped, dropping her quill. Nicolas set aside the tome in his lap, rising at once.
The phoenix alighted on their desk, dropping the sealed letter with a soft, deliberate motion.
Nicolas broke the wax, eyes flicking across the words, his expression tightening. Perenelle read over his shoulder, her brow knitting until it was a dark line.
When they finished, silence stretched.
Perenelle was the first to speak, her voice sharp as a blade. "They stormed into a school? Aurors—against children?"
"Against a child and his bird," Nicolas corrected quietly, though his voice trembled with restrained anger. "And in front of the entire student body, no less."
Perenelle's hands clenched. "This is beyond foolishness. It is cruelty. They would make a spectacle of him, strip away what the bird has freely given." She turned, her eyes blazing. "Albus asks us to speak to the Ministry. I say we do more than speak. We remind them who we are."
Nicolas placed a hand over hers, steadying. "We will. But not in haste. They will listen more keenly if we gather not only our voice, but others who share our cause."
She frowned, but the spark in her eyes did not dim. "Others?"
"Newt," Nicolas said simply.
The name was enough.
Perenelle's lips curved into a sharp smile. "Of course. The Ministry will brand the phoenix a dangerous beast. Let them try, when Newt Scamander himself stands against them."
Nicolas was already pulling fresh parchment toward him.
The second letter came swiftly, its words measured but impassioned.
Dear Newt,
We hope this letter finds you well. We write with news most urgent and remarkable: a young boy at Hogwarts, Oliver D. Night, has bonded with a phoenix the like of which we have never seen—black of feather, with eyes of the sky. This creature is intelligent, restrained, and loyal. Its cry has shown precision enough to strike aggressors while sparing innocents in the same hall.
Yet the Ministry, in its fear and hunger for control, seeks to brand it dangerous and to seize it from the boy. This is not only an affront to magical creatures, but to the principle of choice and loyalty such beings represent. We fear for Oliver, whose growth and even his music are tied to this bond. To sever it would be to harm him beyond measure.
We ask you, as one whose life has been dedicated to the care and defense of magical creatures, to lend your voice to this matter. Your authority will weigh heavily against those who would twist fear into policy. Together, perhaps, we may stay the hand of a Ministry already too quick to strike.
In trust,Nicolas and Perenelle Flamel
Perenelle folded the letter with crisp precision, sealing it in wax as Fawkes watched, feathers shimmering faintly.
"Take it to him," she said, laying a hand against the bird's chest. "And tell him the boy's fate may depend on his answer."
The phoenix bowed its head, then spread its wings wide. With a burst of fire, it was gone.
The flames faded from their study, leaving only the scent of ozone and the faint shimmer of disturbed air. Nicolas remained standing by the desk, his hand resting on the cooling wax seal of his letter ledger.
For a long moment, he and Perenelle simply listened to the hush of their house: the simmer of a forgotten cauldron, the faint creak of wood settling.
Perenelle broke the silence first. "You know what this will mean, once word spreads."
"That the Ministry will double its efforts?" Nicolas asked mildly.
"That they will stop at nothing," she corrected. "Once they realize how rare this phoenix is, they'll treat it as theirs by right. They'll call it policy. Safety. All those convenient words."
Nicolas's expression was grave. "And that is why Albus turned to us. He knows that words like ours carry weight where his will be dismissed as eccentricity."
Her lips pressed together. "It is not eccentricity to defend a child."
"No," Nicolas agreed. His eyes softened, his hand brushing hers where it lay tense on the desk. "But to the Ministry, sentiment is weakness. We must speak their language: influence. Authority. Pressure."
Perenelle's smile was thin but fierce. "Then let us remind them that we are fluent."
Fawkes reappeared high over the English Channel, his body a comet of flame streaking across the night sky. The wind curled around his wings, carrying him faster than broom or beast could hope to travel. The letter clutched in his talons glowed faintly with each pulse of fire.
Southward he flew, across the sea, over moors and valleys, until the countryside gave way to fields and forests. By dawn, he alighted on the windowsill of a modest home hidden deep within Dorset, a place where magical wards layered thick as stone.
Inside, clutter ruled. Books stacked to the ceiling, some teetering precariously. Glass tanks lined with enchanted habitats hummed softly. The smell of parchment mingled with the musk of creatures—fur, feathers, scales, each with its own distinct note.
Newt Scamander shuffled through the mess in worn trousers and a patched coat, a mug of tea in one hand, a quill in the other. His bowtruckle perched contentedly on his shoulder, eyeing the quill with suspicion.
The sudden flare of fire made him nearly drop the mug.
"Good heavens—Fawkes?"
The phoenix trilled, settling gracefully on the desk despite the papers that scattered beneath his talons. Newt's eyes widened as he spotted the letter, its seal unmistakable.
"Nicolas and Perenelle," he murmured, tugging the parchment free. "This must be serious."
He broke the wax and read quickly. His brow furrowed, then rose, his lips parting slightly at the description of the bird.
"Black-feathered… sky-blue eyes…" He sat heavily in his chair, murmuring to himself. "Undocumented. Intelligent. A bond formed with a child…"
The bowtruckle chittered sharply. Newt raised a hand in reassurance. "No, Pickett, no danger here. If anything, it sounds as though this bird showed remarkable restraint."
His fingers traced the lines of the letter again. "Aurors sent into a school. Children forced to watch. Merlin's beard… what are they thinking?"
Fawkes gave a low hum, as though in agreement.
Newt leaned back, staring at the ceiling beams. His mind was already racing: notes he would need to consult, letters he would have to draft, perhaps even a trip to Hogwarts itself. But more than anything, a fierce indignation kindled in his chest.
"They'll brand it a beast," he said softly. "That's what they do. Anything they don't understand, anything they can't control—they turn it into a monster." He shook his head. "Not this time. Not if I can help it."
Pickett clambered from his shoulder to the desk, peering up at Fawkes with bright eyes. The phoenix bent low, touching his beak gently against the bowtruckle's twiglike arm.
Newt smiled faintly at the sight. "Yes. Even the smallest of us know when something is worth protecting."
He set the letter aside, his jaw firming. "Tell Nicolas and Perenelle they have my word. I'll speak to the Ministry. Loudly, if need be. They'll not strip this boy of what's his."
Fawkes trilled again, the sound carrying promise, and in a flash of flame he was gone.
The Flamels were waiting when he reappeared in their study. Perenelle looked up from her cauldron, Nicolas from his open book.
"Well?" Perenelle asked, her voice tight with anticipation.
Fawkes dropped the letter—now signed with Newt's reply—onto the desk. Nicolas unrolled it swiftly, scanning the lines, then looked up at his wife.
"He's with us," Nicolas said simply.
Perenelle's shoulders eased, though her eyes still burned. "Good. The Ministry may dismiss Albus, but they will not dismiss us. And with Newt Scamander beside us…" She trailed off, her mouth curving into a grim smile. "Let us see how loudly Cornelius Fudge shouts when he realizes the world is no longer listening."
Fawkes trilled once more, feathers glowing softly, before vanishing in a final burst of flame—this time winging home to Hogwarts, where a boy and a black phoenix waited unknowingly for the storm to come.