Harry Potter: Reborn as Regulus Black

Chapter 275: A Friendly Fawkes

Regulus ran through what he knew about phoenixes.

Under the Ministry of Magic’s classification system for magical creatures, phoenixes rated XXXX. Dangerous, requiring specialist knowledge.

Acromantulas were XXXXX. Dragons were XXXXX. Nundus were XXXXX.

Phoenixes got only XXXX.

The rating, in Regulus’s view, was a joke.

The Ministry’s classification measured one thing: threat level to wizards.

Dragons could burn down half of Diagon Alley, so XXXXX.

Acromantulas ate people, so XXXXX.

Phoenixes could rise reborn from their own ashes, weep tears that healed anything, carry immense weight in flight, remain utterly loyal to their companions, and pass through every magical defense ever devised.

But they didn’t attack humans. So XXXX.

The entire system’s logic boiled down to how dangerous is this thing to us, not how powerful is this thing. Wizards ranked the world by their own sense of safety.

Wizards held the monopoly on interpreting and wielding magic. They defined the rules, allocated the resources, and pinned labels on everything else.

Phoenix: XXXX, because wizards said so.

Regulus turned back to Fawkes.

He’d made a decision.

He summoned his Patronus.

If a phoenix could see souls, then he’d bring out the most direct projection of his own and let Fawkes see it clearly. What kind of person he was, what color his soul burned, how bright the light shone, it was all in this one creature. No point hiding.

Silver-white light bloomed from his chest and spread through the office.

The Starlight Kite took shape inside the glow. Wings unfurled, feathers igniting one by one. Silver light collided with the warm tones of the fireplace, cold against warm, each holding its ground.

It landed on Regulus’s shoulder, ruffled its wings, and tilted its head toward Fawkes.

Silver eyes met gold.

Fawkes lifted himself on the perch. His head cocked... crimson feathers fluffed, and something like delight flickered in his gaze.

The two birds regarded each other across the air.

The Starlight Kite moved first, launching from Regulus’s shoulder and circling Fawkes once. Silver light brushed across crimson feathers, leaving a brief luminous trail.

Fawkes’s eyes tracked the arc. Then he spread his wings and lifted off the perch.

Gold-crimson flame and silver-white starlight wove through the office. Two birds, one flesh and blood, one forged from soul, spiraled above the fireplace.

For an instant where silver and gold drew close, the light tangled together, the boundary between them blurring before they pulled apart.

Every portrait on the walls had woken. Even the deepest sleepers opened their eyes and watched in silence.

Phineas Nigellus Black, in the topmost frame, leaned forward. Those eyes, bearing a resemblance to Regulus’s own, stirred with something deep and unreadable.

Fawkes glided back to the perch and folded his wings, feathers settling smooth.

The Starlight Kite returned to Regulus’s shoulder, let out a single cry, clear and piercing, then dove into his chest. The silver light dimmed and vanished.

Introductions were over.

Dumbledore watched from behind the desk, his quill resting on the wood, forgotten at some point. He said nothing. The blue eyes behind the spectacles burned a shade brighter than before.

Fawkes sat on the perch for a moment. Then he did something.

Flame enveloped his body, contracting inward, from talons to wings, from wings to plumage.

The fire burst outward. The perch was empty.

Regulus’s perception had been spread wide the entire time. He caught it.

The instant the phoenix vanished, the patch of space where the perch stood seemed to be consumed by the flame.

Nothing like any spatial travel he’d seen before.

Apparition tore space open. The Starlight Kite invited space to part. House-elves skipped over it. Thestrals made it retreat.

The phoenix burned it away.

The distance between origin and destination, in the instant the fire burst, was erased. As though space itself couldn’t hold its shape before phoenix fire, and the gap ceased to exist.

A heartbeat later, flame appeared from nothing on Dumbledore’s desk. Fawkes poked his head out of it.

Residual firelight clung to the gold-and-crimson feathers as he settled onto the desk, one talon pinning the edge of a stack of parchment.

Regulus turned and stared at him for a long time.

Five methods.

Apparition, Starlight Kite, House-elves, Thestrals and Phoenixes.

Another piece had been added to his understanding of spatial magic.

And it was the most extraordinary piece of all: space could be negated.

No Anti-Apparition Charm could touch a phoenix. Those protective spells operated on the logic of preventing space from being traversed. But a phoenix didn’t traverse space. It made space disappear.

Blocking a process that didn’t exist was, of course, meaningless.

Regulus walked back to the desk.

Fawkes sat on the surface, talon still resting on the parchment, head tilted, watching him. The attitude in those golden eyes had shifted from what it had been on the perch.

But Regulus could tell it wasn’t warmth. Phoenixes were proud; they didn’t do warmth toward anyone.

It was more like ease. Everything that needed seeing had been seen, every judgment that needed making had been made, and now the formality could drop.

Fawkes had seen his Patronus.

He’d shown it during his first visit to this office too, but that time and this time, the same bird, the same silver glow, carried different meaning.

This time, Regulus had meant for Fawkes to see his soul, or at least a part of it.

Perhaps because he’d illuminated his own soul, made it visible.

Perhaps because Fawkes had looked with a different purpose this time. A passing glance before; a genuine examination now.

Whatever the reason, this time was different.

Regulus extended his hand, slowly.

His fingers touched phoenix feathers. Soft, warm. They gave slightly under pressure and sprang back when released.

His magical perception reached in through the contact.

Phoenix magic ran hot, dense with vitality.

Not scalding. Closer to the first ray of morning sun on bare skin. Enough to feel, not enough to flinch from.

But beneath that warmth lay something else.

His perception pressed deeper and found a rhythm.

Magic circulated inside Fawkes, and that circulation carried a distinctive pulse.

Power surged to a peak, then plummeted, dropping until it was nearly imperceptible, then rising again, stronger than before.

Surge, fall, surge, fall.

Each fall felt like a death. Each surge felt like a rebirth.

The rhythm of rebirth was written into the phoenix’s magic, happening every moment, without pause.

Fawkes tolerated the touch for a while, occasionally tilting his head, eyes glancing at Regulus with an expression that roughly translated to: That’s enough. How long are you planning to keep this up?

Regulus thought, privately, that this bird’s temperament matched its owner’s. Approachable on the surface, unbothered by everyone underneath.

Dumbledore watched from the side, mouth curved upward, a glint of poorly concealed pride in his eyes. "Fawkes rarely lets anyone touch his feathers."

Regulus glanced at him and said nothing.

The old man, showing off again.

Then Fawkes moved.

He dipped his head, beak reaching toward his own tail feathers. From beside the longest plume, he drew out a slightly shorter one, gold-crimson, deepening to dark red at the base, tipped with orange-gold.

He laid it across Regulus’s open palm.

Warmth seeped through the skin, the phoenix feather’s heat carrying that same rhythm of surge and fall, resting against his palm like a faint but steady pulse.

Regulus looked at the feather in his hand, then back at Fawkes.

Fawkes had already lost interest. He beat his wings, flew back to the perch, tucked his head beneath a wing, and resumed the same posture of supreme indifference he’d worn when Regulus first walked in.

The pride on Dumbledore’s face shifted into something else.

"It seems he really does like you," he said quietly.

Regulus looked up at him, his expression carrying a clear note of ’You told me he liked me last time and he wouldn’t even open an eye, now he gives me a feather and suddenly he likes me again?’

Dumbledore cleared his throat, picked up his teacup, took a sip, and let his gaze drift sideways.

Regulus tucked the feather away, slipping it into the inner pocket of his robes, against his chest. Warm.

Dumbledore set down his cup. "When you truly need help, it will know."

A pause. Then he added, "No spell required. No call. Hold the feather, think of him, and he’ll come."

The same bond Dumbledore shared with Fawkes. Whenever Dumbledore needed help, the phoenix appeared at his side.

Regulus nodded and rose from the chair.

He turned toward Fawkes. On the perch, the bundle of feathers remained buried under one wing, back to ignoring the world.

"Thank you," Regulus said to him.

A wing shifted once. That counted as a reply.

Regulus turned to Dumbledore. "Thank you, Professor."

Dumbledore stood, came around the desk, and stopped in front of him.

The old man towered over him. When he looked down, his silver beard nearly brushed Regulus’s shoulder.

"Regulus." His voice was so gentle it was almost a murmur. "Enjoy your holiday."

He reached out and placed a hand on Regulus’s shoulder.

"I hope that feather never has to be used."

"But if it is, you know someone’s behind you."

Regulus tilted his head up and gave a single nod.

Dumbledore let go, stepped back, and his tone returned to its usual lightness. "Happy Christmas, Regulus."

"Happy Christmas, Professor."

Regulus turned, pushed open the door, and stepped onto the spiral staircase.

It carried him down in its slow rotation.

The corridor was quiet. He walked toward the dormitory, footsteps echoing softly off the walls.