Chapter Text
It was late in the afternoon when she finally arrived at Severus’s house. The sun, low on the horizon, left the ground floor of the house cloaked in shadow, while the first chill of the evening began to set in. Her gaze was drawn to an upstairs window, the only visible room, where a light was on, piercing the aged, ivy-clad facade with an orange glow.
Exhausted from her long journey back, Owl barely hesitated before flapping her small wings toward the window. Earlier, after a few additional treats, Narcissa had finished her reply to Severus and attached it to the small ring fastened around Owl’s leg. Owl had then received a few affectionate strokes and attention from Agnes before taking flight again, delicately carried to a window by Narcissa, who had balanced her on her index finger.
The return journey had mirrored the outbound one, but the excitement and joy of slicing through the air, feeling the sun warming her feathers and the wind playing through her wings, had, after a few hours, given way to genuine fatigue. She had briefly considered resting in a hollow tree, but the prospect of a good meal at Severus’s had motivated her to press on.
As before, the window opened by itself as she approached, and she fluttered into Severus’s study, landing on her usual perch. Severus, seated at his desk, was surrounded by an impressive stack of papers, his fountain pen gliding tirelessly across the sheets. His grey eyes, focused, followed his fine, elegant handwriting, which already covered much of the page in front of him.
Seeing that he was busy, Owl began preening her feathers with care, settling herself comfortably. Her long flight had left her quite disheveled, and this was utterly unacceptable to her. Absorbed in her grooming, she nevertheless started when a deep and soft voice echoed in the room a few minutes later.
“How did your first task go?” Severus asked.
Owl immediately flew over to perch on his shoulder, then concentrated intently, trying to share her memories with him: the wind in her feathers, the blazing sun, the landscape rushing by far below her, her passage through forests, the lake she had soared over, and finally her majestic arrival at Malfoy Manor. She lingered on her encounter with Narcissa and Agnes, attempting to convey that Narcissa would likely wish to see him and that Agnes’s affectionate gestures were particularly irresistible. Once her mental account was complete, she confidently extended her ringed leg.
“I see, so you didn’t encounter any particular issues?” Severus said as he removed Narcissa’s reply from the small black ring.
Owl thought for a moment… Apart from the hunger that had gnawed at her midway through the journey and the fatigue that had accumulated on her return, she hadn’t faced any real obstacles. In truth, she was simply delighted to have flown freely and been rewarded with treats for her efforts!
Under her watchful gaze, Severus began clearing his desk, creating a central space free of letters, newspapers, and various documents.
“Perch yourself on the desk, please. Longer deliveries could take several days, especially those requiring you to carry letters to multiple recipients. I need to modify your ring to enable you to handle such trips.”
Owl watched curiously, not fully understanding how her ring could assist her, but she obeyed without hesitation. After all, she had proven her usefulness by completing her first mission successfully, and Severus had never caused her harm. On the contrary, he had fed and cared for her. Nothing about him reminded her of Mister.
Once perched on the table before him, she extended her leg with a mixture of curiosity and slight apprehension. Despite herself, a hint of nervousness sparkled in her wide eyes, fixed on Severus.
Severus didn’t seem to notice—or more likely, he pretended not to. After all, he could read minds, she recalled with a faint pang of unease. With a precise gesture, he waved his wand over the ring, murmuring strange words, presumably casting a spell, just as she had seen him do the previous day.
Once he had completed his task, he opened a drawer in his desk and retrieved a packet of treats. Owl's reaction was immediate: she began hopping frantically toward him, emitting small pleading hoots and stretching her open beak toward his hands. She wanted those delectable treats! But why was he delaying? Why was he taking out the packet without offering her even a single morsel?
“This treat is your reward for successfully completing your first mission,” he declared evenly, holding up a strip of dried meat that exuded an irresistibly savory aroma. However, he kept it carefully out of her reach.
“Stop fidgeting, and I’ll give it to you.”
Owl froze at once, fixing her hopeful eyes on the prized morsel, her wings neatly folded against her sides. But instead of handing over the treat, Severus made a motion with his wand, and the piece disappeared, absorbed into the ring on her leg. Owl let out an indignant squawk and desperately tried to peck at the ring to reclaim her reward.
“Two taps on the bracelet,” Severus explained calmly.
It took Owl a moment to comprehend his words and put them into action. After two well-measured pecks, the treat materialized between her feet. Triumphant, she devoured it with delight.
“For longer trips, I’ll add food to your bracelet. You’ll be able to access it this way—two taps. Understood?”
Owl responded with an approving hoot, though she remained slightly miffed. What should have been a simple gift had turned into an impromptu lesson! That said, she had to admit that having access to food mid-flight could be a lifesaver if she ever had to deliver messages to far-off destinations, well beyond Narcissa’s home.
As he prepared to put away the packet of treats, Severus hesitated. His gaze shifted from the packet to Owl, who watched him with an intensity full of hope. Finally, without a word, he retrieved a second treat and handed it to her. Owl, overjoyed, seized it immediately and gulped it down with enthusiasm, shaking her feathers in contentment.
“Let’s not make a habit of this,” he muttered, finally closing the drawer. Then, rising from his desk, he asked, “Still hungry for dinner?”
Owl answered with a cheerful hoot and leapt onto his shoulder, clearly ready to follow him. She had flown all day; two treats weren’t going to curb her appetite.
As Severus moved through the corridor and descended the stairs, Owl realized how much she appreciated her perch on his shoulder. His stride was so fluid and steady that it felt as though he was gliding slightly above the ground. From her perch, she felt barely a jolt. Moreover, her position provided a perfect vantage point and spared her the effort of walking or flying. His clothing, made of thick yet soft fabrics, was surprisingly comfortable under her talons.
The only downside? His hair! Hanging nearly to his shoulders, it was often tangled and occasionally a bit greasy. Didn’t this man ever take the time to smooth it out? Even she devoted a significant part of her day to the meticulous care of her feathers.
At the bottom of the stairs, she couldn’t help herself: she began running her beak through his hair, determined to untangle it. Severus paused briefly, surprised, but he said nothing and resumed walking, pretending to ignore her efforts.
As they entered the combined dining and living room, Owl noted that nothing much had changed since the day before, save for one detail: the book on owls that Severus had brought back was open on the table, and an unusual wicker box with a small opening now sat atop the shelf.
Severus raised his hand to her height, and, guessing his intention, Owl hopped onto his finger. She gazed at his face curiously, waiting for what would come next.
“While I reheat the leftovers and prepare your portion, you can check out your room,” he said, placing her gently on a small wooden perch. This brand-new perch extended from the bookshelf, right beside the peculiar box.
As Severus’s tall figure disappeared into the kitchen, Owl hesitated for a moment. Then she realized what he meant by "room." He had prepared her a nest! Owl loved nests, those cozy, enclosed spaces high off the ground where she could curl up safely. The basket where she had slept the night before had sufficed, mostly because she had been so utterly exhausted that she’d collapsed into it, carried by Severus. But she had to admit she wasn’t particularly eager to return to it. Her usual nests had always been makeshift: an abandoned woodpecker’s hollow in a tree behind Mr. and Mrs.’s garden, or a nook beneath the staircase cupboard, slightly elevated from the floor.
She cast a hesitant glance toward the kitchen, still uncertain how to feel about Severus’s gesture. Then, curiosity overcoming her, she hopped into the entrance of the nest.
The interior was dark, but thanks to her owl vision, she had no trouble seeing inside. The first word that came to mind was: perfect. This nest was infinitely better than the woodpecker’s hollow or the nook beneath the stairs.
Beyond the entrance, a small alcove led to a circular chamber perfectly suited to her size. The floor was covered in soft little blankets and carefully arranged pieces of wool. Owl didn’t hesitate for a second before darting inside. She hopped around the space, delighted, testing the blankets' softness with her feet and emitting a few small hoots of appreciation. She quickly found her spot, settling at the front of the nest, her head slightly protruding from the entrance to observe the room outside.
From this vantage point, she had a clear view of the entire living room, as well as the entrance visible through the double doors. It was an ideal angle for keeping watch. She burrowed deeper into the blankets, her small body gradually warming her new haven. She was nearly dozing off when a noise—Severus returning from the kitchen—abruptly reminded her of her lingering hunger.
She left her "room" in a graceful glide and landed on Severus’s shoulder, letting out soft hoots of gratitude. She caught a faint nod of acknowledgment from him, though his face remained as impassive as ever. With a fluid gesture, he placed a tray on the table, one side bearing small pieces of dried meat and the other holding the leftovers from his takeaway meal from the previous evening.
Guided by her appetite, Owl didn’t wait long before diving into her food. She relished her meal with obvious delight, while Severus ate his with stoic detachment.
A few minutes later, satiated, Owl observed Severus from her perch on the back of a chair. He was methodically clearing the table. She was about to return to her newly appointed nest to test it further when Severus reappeared with a parchment in hand. He placed it on the table before sitting down.
Intrigued, Owl cautiously stepped onto the table to inspect what he had brought. But, of course, she quickly remembered that she couldn’t read. The symbols etched on the parchment meant nothing to her, though they seemed arranged in a list of relatively short words aligned under dashes.
She lifted her large eyes to Severus, who remained silent, his scrutinizing gaze fixed on her. “Are you content being called Owl?” he finally asked in a calm voice.
She blinked slowly, perplexed. What a strange question. She was called Owl because Dudley had named her that. It was a much better name than the insults she had endured from Mister and Mrs. But it wasn’t as though she had any particular attachment to the word, which simply designated the species of bird she was.
“You don’t have a strong opinion,” Severus concluded, his gaze as piercing as ever.
That was true. As long as the name she was given wasn’t cruel, she didn’t mind. For instance, she referred to Severus as “Severus” in her thoughts because the name seemed less abrupt than “Snape” and because she had heard others call him that. But in truth, she didn’t recognize Severus by his name. To her, Severus was far more than that: his imposing stature, his generosity in feeding her and giving her treats, his hooked nose, his dark and penetrating eyes, his neatly trimmed goatee, and the angular lines of his face.
There was also his upright, confident posture, his ability to move through crowds effortlessly, his icy calm that nevertheless concealed a certain attentiveness, and his patient nurturing of her insatiable curiosity. To her, Severus was a collection of details and qualities—a whole she recognized instantly. His name was merely a label, a convenient wrapper to designate this unique man.
“Feeding and housing you decently is simply part of our agreement. It’s the least I can do. You don’t need to see it as an act of kindness on my part,” Severus stated in a tone she interpreted as weary.
It was true that he was only keeping his word, but to her, it already meant a great deal! Mister had never kept his word. And Severus seemed to go above and beyond what was necessary: the little house he had built for her atop the shelf was an extra touch he wasn’t obligated to provide. He could have put her in a cage and called it lodging. He could also have fed her carelessly, but instead, he took the time to cut the meat into perfectly sized pieces for her small beak. And those delicious treats… yes, he was doing far more than he was required to.
Severus, deliberately ignoring the flood of her grateful thoughts, continued, “I’m uncomfortable calling you Owl—for both moral and practical reasons. If I understand correctly, you wouldn’t object to us choosing a new name?”
If Severus wanted to call her something else, she had no problem with that. She merely thought it might take her some time to get used to thinking of herself as something other than “Owl.” Responding to a new name would likely be a challenge at first. But… what did he mean by “us choosing”? Was he planning to involve someone else in this decision?
“Forgive me, I didn’t phrase that well,” Severus clarified. “I’ve compiled a selection of names I believe are suitable. I propose reading them to you, and we’ll decide on your new name together.”
His usually stern face softened slightly. Owl hopped closer to him, alternating her gaze between the parchment and his face. Once again, he was showing a kindness she wasn’t used to. It had been less than two days since she had started living with him, and yet, she was beginning to think of Severus as genuinely considerate.
“Your standards for kindness are, I fear, terribly low,” he said, raising an eyebrow. “I am merely doing the bare minimum expected for a wilderfolk with a difficult past who has just come under my roof, and with whom I am likely to collaborate in the long term.”
Amused, Owl tilted her head slightly. That was a lot of words to say that he was, indeed, kind.
Perhaps he sensed the futility of continuing the argument, as he pressed on: “I’ll read you the names, with a brief explanation for each. Once the list is complete, we’ll decide together.”
Clearing his throat, he began reading.
“Ashley,” he said. “It means ‘ash wood.’ It’s a sturdy name, evoking strength and resilience.
Owl tilted her head to the side. The name didn’t resonate with her particularly. It was certainly better than “Owl,” but she felt that almost anything would be an improvement.
Severus continued: “Athena. The goddess of war and wisdom in Greek mythology. She also lends her name to your species: the little owl, Athene noctua. Taking her name could, therefore, be fitting.”
Owl understood the logic, but the idea of bearing the name of a goddess felt misplaced. Such a name seemed far too grand for her.
“Aria,” Severus went on. “It comes from the word for ‘air’ in Italian. It’s a simple, elegant name, particularly suited to an airborne creature like yourself.”
At this suggestion, Owl felt a shiver of excitement run through her wings. She liked the idea: bearing the name of the very element in which she loved to fly. Yet she hesitated. As Severus had said, it was best to hear the entire list before deciding.
“Aislinn,” he continued. “It comes from the Irish word for ‘dream.’ It carries no deeper meaning, but I thought the sound of it suited you.”
Owl watched him without reacting much. The name provoked neither rejection nor enthusiasm.
Severus went on: “Anemone. This one has a double meaning. Firstly, it’s the name of a flower.”
He waved his wand, conjuring in the air a translucent image of delicate six-petaled flowers, their dark centers shifting in hues from blue to red to violet. Owl was mesmerized by their beauty, almost missing the rest of the explanation.
“This flower is also known as ‘windflower,’ because its seeds are carried by the wind. The name thus refers both to the flower and to the wind.”
Severus continued speaking, but Owl was no longer listening. Anemone… It didn’t matter what other suggestions he might have; she had already made her choice! Windflower… The name felt so right, so perfect. It resonated with everything she was: her pretty plumage, reminiscent of delicate petals, and above all, the joy she experienced riding the winds. Whether it was light breezes or powerful gusts, her wings carried her with such grace that she felt as though she belonged to the sky.
Severus was saying something when she suddenly expressed her enthusiasm. Flapping her little wings frantically, she let out a series of determined “Kiouw kiouw kiouw” sounds, her excitement palpable in every note.
He stopped, lifting his eyes to her with an unreadable expression. She seized the moment to convey clear images to him: the delicate flowers drifting in her mind, followed by the wind—the invigorating sensation filling her wings—the gentle light, and the pastel hues she associated with this harmony.
She thought she caught a fleeting smile brush Severus’s lips… No, she must have imagined it.
“You’re certain you don’t want to hear the rest of the options?” he asked with unflappable calm.
“Kiouw kiouw kiouw!” she insisted with renewed energy, flapping her wings again to emphasize her choice.
Severus nodded slowly, as if accepting the inevitable, then methodically rolled up the parchment and stood. “So be it, Anemone. Rest well. Tomorrow, you’ll have more letters to deliver. I have several urgent correspondences that I can’t entrust to anyone else.”
As Severus finished washing the dishes, the lights on the ground floor went out one by one, gradually plunging the house into silence. Each room returned to its stillness as Severus retreated to his study, or perhaps his bedroom, to attend to his own matters.
Meanwhile, Anemone flew to the nest Severus had prepared for her. She nestled in with a soft hoot of contentment, burrowing her small body into the cozy blankets. From her snug refuge, she gazed out at the dimly lit living room. Through the window, she could make out the quiet street, faintly illuminated by a few streetlamps casting an orange glow.
The name “Anemone” swirled in her thoughts. It carried a particular sweetness. How strange to define oneself with a single sound, as though her entire being could be encapsulated in one vibration. But on reflection, if a name was chosen with care, if it was personal, she could understand why it held such importance.
And this new name conjured such pleasant images: delicate flowers dancing in the breeze, free and weightless. It stood in stark contrast to the heavy burden of the past she still carried. The name “Owl” was the last tangible remnant she had brought with her from Mister and Mrs.
She allowed herself a brief moment of nostalgia, thinking of Dudley. She missed him a little, yes, but not enough to regret her new life. Anemone now felt liberated. Light. As though, in adopting this new name, she had broken the final chain tethering her to that old world.
She closed her eyes, soothed by the thought, and let her mind wander, free like the petals of a flower carried on the wind.
oOOOo
Today, Anemone beat her small wings with determination and vigor, soaring eagerly northward. She had taken off at dawn, just after breakfast, proudly carrying four letters to deliver. Severus had explained that he had fallen behind on his correspondences, and until this backlog was cleared, Anemone would have her work cut out for her—far more than usual. He had confided that he maintained prolific epistolary relationships with several private correspondents. Once these accumulated letters were delivered, her workload would settle into a more stable rhythm, with manageable daily trips. For the most distant correspondents, Severus had issued warnings: such journeys could take several days, and he was adamant that she must not risk injury by trying to go faster than necessary.
Anemone had just left Malfoy Manor, where she had dropped off Severus’s reply to Narcissa. Before setting out again, she had enjoyed a brief respite in Narcissa’s study. The lady of the house hadn’t let her leave without a series of affectionate strokes and some delightful treats. Satiated and rested, Anemone felt ready to tackle the rest of her deliveries.
Three letters remained to be delivered. The first was addressed to a certain Marianne Geomont, whom Severus had described as a loyal correspondent. Her finely honed "post owl" senses told her she needed to head northeast, toward the sea, whose vast, glimmering expanse she could already glimpse in the distance. The other two letters were for recipients farther north: one for a certain Minerva McGonagall, and the other for someone named Albus… Bud? Bun? Bumblebee? Severus had repeated the name several times, but Anemone still couldn’t quite retain it. Honestly, she found “Bumblebee” to be a particularly charming name, even though she knew it was wrong. She decided she would simply call him Albus—it would be easier.
Thinking of her own name, Anemone couldn’t help but repeat it softly in her mind. “Anemone… Anemone…” A sweet, exhilarating feeling buzzed under her feathers, filling her little heart with a dancing joy. She loved this new name, far more engaging than “Owl.” The joy of this thought pulsed through her. She would bear the name of the flowers, daughters of the wind! she thought, letting out a small triumphant hoot and performing an aerial pirouette.
As she flew over the bare, verdant hills of northern Scotland, dotted with rocky outcrops, Anemone sensed her next destination drawing nearer. Luck was on her side: the sky was a clear, flawless blue, and the summer sun bathed the moorland in golden light. Below her, a scattered flock of sheep appeared as a multitude of fluffy white dots. Further on, she soared above a charming village nestled in a valley, its stone houses surrounded by countryside crisscrossed with dry stone walls, which she played at following like winding trails.
Anemone veered widely around a group of creatures with equine bodies and the bare torsos of men and women, galloping at full speed across the moorland, their bows drawn, in pursuit of a terrified deer. Their impressive presence deterred her from approaching any closer. Soon after, while skimming along a cliff, she nearly ventured too close to a colossal figure.
It was a gigantic man, five or six times Severus’s height, his rough, gray skin blending with the surrounding rock. A spear, likely fashioned from a tree trunk, rested in one hand, while the other shielded his eyes as he scanned the horizon. The lower part of his face was hidden by a thick beard resembling an intertwining of roots and lichen. An eagle with a human-like face perched on his massive shoulder, murmuring into his ear. Anemone circled prudently around them, her heart pounding, hoping that the magic of Severus’s ring rendered her invisible to their eyes.
It was only when she left this awe-inspiring sight behind and found herself above the ocean that she could finally relax. The steep cliffs plunged into tumultuous waves, and Anemone was captivated by the majesty of the sea. It was the first time she had seen such a vast expanse of water, and the discovery swept away the fears of her previous encounter. Waves crashed against the dark rocks, spraying white foam that sparkled under the sunlight.
She approached the swirling waters and noticed graceful creatures, part seal and part woman, playing in the waves, laughing and splashing. They seemed entirely indifferent to the small owl flying above them.
With reluctance, Anemone tore her gaze from the mesmerizing scene, her instincts signaling that her destination was near. Atop a steep cliff stood a spectacular house, seemingly carved into the very rock itself. Large windows were set directly into the cliff face, while turrets reached boldly toward the sky, and structures propped up by wooden and stone supports defied gravity. The slate roofs, shaped like scales, varied in color from deep green to intense blue, occasionally streaked with vibrant orange. In some places, metallic chimneys released bluish smoke that blended seamlessly with the azure sky.
Anemone could sense her recipient nearby. She alighted gracefully on the edge of a window and tapped her beak against the glass to announce her arrival. A voice rose from within, and, as if by magic, the window opened slowly. Without hesitation, Anemone slipped inside, discovering a room both warm and chaotic—a true kaleidoscope of objects and styles.
The furniture, made from various woods and of diverse designs, seemed to hail from distant places, gathered or gifted with little concern for harmony. The fabrics draped throughout the room—tablecloths, rugs, and curtains—juxtaposed soft and garish tones, creating a visually eclectic and bewildering universe. At the center of the room, a low table was surrounded by an assortment of seating: a plush sofa, a sharp-angled wooden chair, and other equally varied options. Against the walls stood shelves, buffets, china cabinets, and armoires, forming a hodgepodge collection of antiques likely sourced from all over the world.
In the hearth, a fire burned peacefully, its orange glow reflecting off a black cast-iron cauldron, from which rose bluish smoke with intriguing aromas. Anemone noticed with curiosity two luminous, almost lifelike eyes watching her from within the flames, exuding a serene curiosity. Beneath the ceiling beams, translucent creatures resembling fish floated. Their long, pinkish-violet bodies undulated gracefully around the chains of a chandelier, from which dozens of candles emitted a soft white glow.
In a corner near the fireplace, Anemone spotted about ten small black orbs with enormous, curious eyes. The moment they felt her gaze, they vanished in a small puff, hiding behind a broom propped against the wall, under furniture, and between floorboards.
The walls themselves were adorned with tapestries depicting natural landscapes—oceans, forests, and hills—that reminded Anemone of the places she had flown over on her journey here. There were also paintings of charming still lifes and portraits of individuals with a peculiar allure that she couldn’t quite explain.
Anemone had just perched on the back of a chair when the sudden arrival of a creature startled her. A small, vaguely humanoid being covered in thick, dark-brown fur burst into the room through a partially open door. It sported bat-like wings, large, pitch-black eyes, and a snub snout above a mouth bristling with hundreds of needle-like teeth. Its enormous, mobile ears twitched in every direction, and its long tail, tipped with a light-colored plume, swished excitedly in the air.
The creature leapt onto the table, staring intently at Anemone before screeching in a high-pitched, nasal voice, “Mistress! Mistress! A strange owl is in the sitting room!”
The shrill cry sent a shiver through Anemone, who instinctively shrank back.
“I’m coming!” answered a slightly raspy female voice from the depths of the house.
“Stop screeching, Jasper,” growled another voice, much closer this time. Anemone took a moment to realize this one was coming from the hearth. A fiery mouth had appeared beneath the glowing eyes, and every “s” pronounced by the voice escaped in curling ribbons of flame.
“Mistress! Cinder is being rude to me again!” exclaimed Jasper, sticking his tongue out at the flames. The creature approached Anemone, its deep black eyes fixed on her with curiosity. Intimidated, Anemone puffed up her feathers and hissed, prompting Jasper to retreat sulkily to the other end of the table.
“What’s going on now?” asked a woman as she finally emerged from the door at the back of the room.
Anemone regarded her with a mixture of curiosity and astonishment. The woman, petite and noticeably thin despite the multiple layers of red, blue, and violet floral robes she wore, was wrapped in a sandy-yellow shawl and a spotted scarf. Her pale, bald face and head were entirely covered in moving black tattoos, even her lips adorned with the intricate designs. Metal jewelry engraved with minute inscriptions decorated her ears and cheekbones.
What struck Anemone the most, however, were the goat-like legs visible beneath her robes and her left arm, which was made of bluish chitin resembling a crab’s claw but infinitely more delicate, surrounded by slowly moving luminous filaments. One of these filaments coiled around a long glass rod. Her other hand—human this time—was laden with rings, and several silver and gold bracelets jingled at her wrist.
Anemone couldn’t tear her gaze away from who she assumed must be Marianne. An uncanny sensation of coolness confirmed that this was indeed the recipient of the letter. Severus really has some strange acquaintances, she thought. But then again, he had hired her knowing she was an owl capable of disguising herself as human. She shouldn’t be surprised.
Her gaze finally met Marianne’s. The woman’s eyes were blue, almost ordinary, except for the subtle symbols, similar to those tattooed on her face, that seemed to float in her irises.
“A new owl!” exclaimed Marianne. “Why did you let her in, Cinder? All owls should be redirected to John.”
The fire in the hearth responded with a burst of glowing embers, its voice hissing through the air. “She bears the mark. She’s one of the exceptions.”
Half-terrified, half-curious, Anemone tried not to tremble as she extended her leg to display the ring. Drawn by the movement, Marianne’s eyes focused on her.
“Oh, Master Snape’s reply! At last!” Marianne exclaimed, leaning closer to examine the ring. She extended her crab-like appendage, its bluish chitin shimmering faintly, encircled by glowing filaments. Anemone, frightened, suppressed the urge to pull away. She knew she couldn’t leave until she delivered the letter and waited to see if Marianne had a reply for her to carry.
One of the filaments brushed the ring, and a swirl of light erupted, sending the letter spiraling into the air. Marianne caught it deftly and opened it, using a filament to slice the paper with remarkable precision.
As her eyes scanned the letter’s contents, Anemone blinked. She could have sworn the sorceress’s scarf had moved.
“Oh, poor Arold… he was a fine creature. Surprising that he chose a little owl as a replacement…” Marianne murmured as she read. “Ah, I suppose it makes sense—a wilderfolk… Well, his heart isn’t as hard as he pretends.”
She raised her eyes to Anemone, who was trying to make herself as small as possible under her scrutinizing gaze. “Don’t be afraid, no one here is going to eat you…” she said reassuringly.
“Not even me, Mistress?” hissed a low, serpentine voice, seemingly emanating from the scarf itself. Anemone, initially perplexed, felt her heart race as the scarf began to move gently. It unraveled with an almost meditative slowness, slithering like a reptile from around the sorceress’s neck to reveal its true nature. To Anemone’s horror, it wasn’t an ordinary scarf but a snake—with three heads.
The three triangular snouts, adorned with patterns resembling engraved scales, rose, their golden eyes gleaming with a piercing and predatory light.
The heads pivoted to fix their gaze hungrily on Anemone. “She smells good,” hissed the second head, its forked tongue flickering in the air. “Just the right size…” added the third.
“No!” Marianne snapped, reprimanding the serpent. “We do not harm guests.” Turning her attention back to Anemone, she added, “You’re lucky you ended up with Severus… not all postal owls are treated so well.” She cast a quick glance at the letter. “Anemone. A lovely name.”
Despite Marianne’s assurances, Anemone felt cornered and uneasy. Between the talking fire, the three-headed snake, Jasper, and Marianne herself, everything seemed to conspire to unsettle her. Yet, she knew she had to stay professional and uphold Severus’s trust by completing her mission.
“Jasper! Fetch some treats. She’s traveled far and deserves a reward,” Marianne ordered, turning another page of the letter. Jasper scurried off, muttering, “Right away, ma’am!”
Meanwhile, the snake slithered from Marianne’s shoulders, inching closer to Anemone, its forked tongues flickering in the air. Puffing up her feathers with all her might, Anemone faced the serpent with fierce determination. It was much larger than her, but she couldn’t flee—not yet.
She flinched as Marianne let out a wild cry of joy, shattering the tense silence. The sorceress began to dance around the room, her cloven hooves striking the floor in a frenzied rhythm.
“Cinder! Jasper! Safran! He’s accepted the collaboration!” she exclaimed, waving the letter triumphantly.
“Congratulations, Mistress!” the three heads of the snake hissed in unison, followed by a hearty “Bravo!” from Jasper, who returned carrying a tin box. The fire in the hearth flared with a scarlet tongue of flame, illuminating the room with flickering light.
“I’ll start thinking through the details of what to propose…” Marianne muttered. “Jasper, give her a treat. Anemone, you’re free to go. I won’t be responding immediately,” she added hastily before disappearing through the door at the back of the room.
Dazed by the events, Anemone decided it was best not to linger and reflect on what she had just witnessed. She gladly accepted the treat Jasper handed her, and he gave her a cheeky wink before popping one into his own mouth.
Anemone wasted no more time. After a final glance around the peculiar home, she spread her wings and leaped gracefully toward the open window. The cool breeze outside was a welcome relief, dissipating the tension that had weighed on her inside. Before diving into the air, she cast one last look back, capturing an image of the strange dwelling with its glowing windows and the unsettling troupe of creatures residing there with Marianne.
Soaring into the clear sky, she savored the delicious treat melting softly in her beak—a sweet reward after a more harrowing stop than she had anticipated. Her wings beat strongly as she reclaimed the freedom of the skies, recalibrating her senses to determine the next leg of her journey.
Now, her goal was clear: deliver the letter to Minerva McGonagall. The thought of this destination brought her a sense of calm. Severus hadn’t said much about Minerva, other than her name, but surely she couldn’t be more intimidating than Marianne—or so Anemone naïvely thought.
oOOOo
She had been wrong. Completely wrong. Minerva was absolutely terrifying. Hunched on a dark perch in a shadowy corner of the room, Anemone tried to make herself invisible, her small feathery body nearly flattened against the wood. The room itself, stark and austere with its bare stone walls and functional furniture, only amplified the crushing authority emanating from Minerva. Compared to her, Marianne was delightful, and even Safran, the three-headed snake, seemed almost welcoming!
Minerva was tall. Very tall. A good three heads taller than Marianne, and every inch of her height seemed carved from solid rock. Unlike Marianne's expressive and ornately adorned face, Minerva’s was a fortress—her severe features chiseled in stone, her eyebrows like arcs of granite, and her gaze as sharp as tempered steel. Her piercing eyes seemed to peer directly into Anemone’s soul, and the little owl quivered at every movement of this imposing woman.
And yet, Anemone had arrived full of hope, her heart—well, her beak—light. Following the peculiar sense of coolness that guided her, she had landed on the window of a large Scottish farmhouse with a thatched roof, perched at the edge of a village. As had become her habit, she had tapped softly with her beak to announce her presence. But this time, the response was brutal. The window had flown open with a crash, and a firm hand had seized her, gripping her tightly enough to cause her some pain. Panicked, she had let out a series of sharp, shrill cries: “SQUIII—SQUIII—SQUIII!”—until a spell silenced her. Frozen in place, mute, she couldn’t even breathe freely.
Magic from Minerva’s wand had then descended upon her in successive waves. Each spell made her feel something different: icy pricks, suffocating heat, burning tingles. She endured it all, unable to move, as Minerva studied her with intense scrutiny. Finally, the woman had sat down in a high-backed chair and continued to fix her impassively with her gaze. The prolonged silence was almost worse than the spells.
When Minerva had finally extracted the letter from the black ring and deactivated the spell holding her, Anemone had barely managed to summon the strength to fly to a dark corner of the room and perch there, trembling.
If she had been in human form, she would have burst into tears and curled up on the floor. But even in her owl shape, she was still trembling. Minerva, having read the letter with methodical attention, had stood and approached Anemone. Her piercing gaze seemed to probe her very thoughts, and the little owl, petrified, dared not even breathe. She was convinced that this woman was about to devour her on the spot.
And yet, in Minerva’s eyes, there was a strange nuance that Anemone’s terror prevented her from fully understanding.
After setting the letter aside, Minerva opened the window with a sharp gesture. Anemone wasted no time. She bolted, flying away as fast as her wings could carry her without even looking back. Only after putting a considerable distance between herself and the farmhouse did she land atop a pine tree to catch her breath.
The worst was over. But for a moment, she had been convinced she would never leave that house alive.
There was just one letter left to deliver. With a bit of luck, Albus Bumblebee would be more welcoming.
oOOOo
For Albus Dumbledore, the summer school holidays were a blessed time. With most noble families vacationing in distant and extravagant locations, the Wizengamot slowed to a crawl, addressing only a few simple, mundane matters in an almost entirely empty amphitheater. Representatives of the various families' interests were also away on holiday. Furthermore, no one wanted to risk passing any significant laws during this informal truce, fearing it might set a precedent and disrupt the relative political calm of these two months.
Hogwarts, now home only to ghosts, Hagrid, Argus Filch, and Miss Norris, required little of his attention beyond routine matters such as supply orders and the annual ward inspections.
His obligations to the ICW (International Confederation of Wizards) also eased, as the lethargy brought on by the summer heat seemed not only to affect his fellow countrymen but also to permeate all of Europe. The magical world across the continent sank into a gentle apathy, mirroring the excessive busyness of the rest of the year. Exceptions, of course, included agricultural communities for whom the harvest season was in full swing, as well as artisans and the lowest classes of society, who never truly knew rest as they lived perpetually on the edge. Only communities like those of the Greengrass, Lovegood, Bones, and recently, Potter families could claim to be socially balanced enough to avoid the exploitative practices seen in many other households, ensuring their subjects a life consisting of more than mere toil.
Having escaped the worst of the bloodshed and fire of war, magical Britain had remained relatively unscathed. It had thus not experienced the uprisings and purges that followed Grindelwald's downfall across Europe. The nobility on the continent, whether refusing to renounce their titles or bearing accumulated resentment, had faced decapitation—metaphorically and often literally. This led to a wave of democratization across various nations, achieved through blood and tears at the cost of countless lives, made even more precious after the two devastating wars that had torn through the century. Yet the continent, tasked with rebuilding everything, emerged stronger and healthier, its flames having eradicated the weeds along with everything else. This gave rise to new nations, like the Hispano-Aquitanian-French Federation, or the rebirth of ancient entities such as the reformation of the Holy Roman Empire, aimed at dissolving Grindelwald's territorial stronghold and giving a fresh identity and pride to otherwise vengeful regions, dousing embers by mixing them into the pile of ashes.
In contrast, Britain remained unchanged—though shaken enough for Tom's counter-revolution to take root, dragging the nation further away from the progressivism Albus championed. The "Blood War" ended in what Albus bitterly referred to as a "ceasefire." Tom, vanquished in a single night, had taken with him into the beyond the dearly loved James and Lily Potter, victims of a plan both brilliant and terrible orchestrated by Lily. Another two young lives sacrificed, among so many others. With their leader gone, Tom's forces scattered, retreating into the shadows from whence they came. The Ministry, corrupt to the core, attempted an internal purge with... let’s call it questionable effectiveness. Few among the nobility who shared the regressive ideals of Tom's propaganda genuinely lost power. Only the most visible Death Eaters were condemned to that atrocity some dared call a prison—Azkaban—serving as scapegoats for the majority who had acted more discreetly.
After all, hadn’t they achieved their goals? The rights of Muggle-borns had been curtailed, the nobility’s power—shaken by Grindelwald’s ideals—had been reinforced, and the Wizengamot’s voice grew louder compared to the Ministry. Albus had hoped the Ministry could transition into a fully-fledged democracy. Instead, the caste system was now stronger, more stratified than ever.
While some surely celebrated this situation, magical Britain, rotting from the inside out, had become an increasingly dangerous powder keg—torn between separatism and widespread discontent among a growing portion of the magical population, living in conditions worse than the average Muggle. A fragile illusion of superiority, sustained by orchestrated ignorance, led the most gullible to still imagine Muggles as crawling creatures, condemned to abject misery by their lack of magic.
From his position, Albus hoped to modernize the values of Great Britain’s magical society by outlawing the enslavement of nymphs, sylphs, undines, wilderfolk, and other unfortunate magical beings and humans working on the estates of noble lords. This, he believed, would already be a significant step forward. He also dreamed of establishing an effective and non-discriminatory public education system, though he increasingly considered this an unattainable utopia. Education in Great Britain was in a disastrous state: many schools existed, but they were all private, with prohibitive costs that forced the working classes to rely on monastery charity schools or the rare, semi-volunteer teachers compensated with little more than room and board.
With Tom’s return looming on the horizon and the state of affairs as dire as it was, Albus sometimes despaired of steering the country in the right direction without resorting to fear and bloodshed. Everything pointed to an eventual collapse of the fragile balance. For a long time, he had resigned himself to the necessity of mitigating damage as much as possible when the worst came to pass, ensuring that the conflict would yield a nascent, peaceful, and egalitarian democracy, rather than the dark empire Tom envisioned for his throne.
Thus, summer became a time for Albus to soothe his spirit and preserve his mental health. It allowed him to maintain his physical well-being and indulge in activities unrelated to the anxieties that twisted his stomach. One such activity was the engaging discussion he was currently enjoying with Nicolas and Perenelle on their latest research into spectral alchemy. They sat at a sunlit table on his garden terrace, where Albus held a glass of excellent red wine brought by the couple, an aperitif while waiting for the quiche Lorraine baking in the oven. Its enticing aroma wafted from inside the house.
Albus was far from wealthy. He came from a family of commoners, and most of his titles were honorary rather than monetary. Furthermore, the vast majority of his resources were redirected toward preparing for the coming war, striving to save what could be salvaged. Most of his material possessions had been gifts from friends, acquaintances, or admirers over the years. One of the most notable gifts was this small traditional house in a village near Inverness: stone walls, a thatched roof, a large garden—a charming home where he loved to spend his summer months.
As Nicolas refilled Perenelle’s glass with the fine wine, Albus let his gaze drift over his garden, which was vibrant with a kaleidoscope of colors in this season. The flower beds, almost wild in their abundance, displayed a festival of tulips, daffodils, and roses, each vying for the sun’s rays. Not far away, a lush vegetable garden provided much of his pantry’s stock, with neat rows of lettuces, carrots, and tomatoes. Winding pathways of stepping stones, bordered by lavender and rosemary, led the eye to a small stone fountain at the center, its gentle trickling soothing to the ear. The entire space was meticulously maintained by the diligent work of a brownie—a charming creature whom Albus wisely rewarded daily, while never attempting to catch a glimpse of it.
His gaze then shifted to the rest of the village and the gray sea that his home overlooked from its perch atop the hill. As his thoughts wandered back to Hogwarts and the list of things he hoped to organize this year, he recalled something mentioned by one of their mutual friends. Unable to resist, he decided to seek clarification directly.
"Tell me, I’ve heard rumors that you plan to teach at Beauxbâtons starting this year. I’m quite curious to know what prompted this decision, especially since last I heard, you seemed perfectly content dedicating yourself entirely to your research."
"I imagine Jeanne couldn’t keep her mouth shut," said Perenelle with a sly smile.
"Quite so. We intended it to be a surprise. It’s been a little over a century, after all. Only Olympe and Libra were supposed to know before Jeanne, as usual, poked her nose where it had no business being," Nicolas sighed.
Rather than confirm their suspicions about the likely culprit of the indiscretion, Albus swirled the wine in his glass, took a sip, and said, "It’s a splendid surprise you’ve prepared. I’m certain the students at Beauxbâtons will be ecstatic to hear the news. I must admit, however, I’m curious about this sudden change of direction."
"Nicolas and I were beginning to stagnate, our new ideas for research becoming increasingly scarce. There comes a time when merely reading the latest publications is no longer enough to nourish the mind. After a few exchanges with Libra, we decided that engaging with the younger generations would be a refreshing change of pace and perspective," Perenelle explained.
"The old dragon always had a way with words and the art of gentle persuasion. Not to mention, his advice is rarely devoid of at least some wisdom," Albus chuckled. "I can’t help but agree with him. Engaging with Hogwarts students brings me both joy and a great source of motivation and inspiration. I always make sure to teach at least a few classes each week. Besides giving my dear colleagues some much-needed time off, it refreshes my own spirit."
"I’m glad you…" Nicolas began, but he paused, turning his head in the same direction as Perenelle, who was already looking. "…someone’s coming."
"I assure you, I wasn’t expecting any other guests," Albus said, frowning slightly.
His two companions remained silent, their eyes fixed on the sky—or rather, on a small dark shape rapidly approaching. A few seconds later, effortlessly bypassing his wards as if they didn’t exist, a little Athene noctua owl landed lightly on the table.
She was perfectly round, her feathers a reddish-brown speckled with white, typical for her species. She appeared unremarkable, except for her two large green eyes, which gazed at him with a blend of curiosity, apprehension, and an intelligence far too sharp for an ordinary owl—even a postal one.
He had the strange feeling that he’d seen those eyes somewhere before, but he couldn’t quite place them. Often having such impressions, he decided instead to address his companions.
"Forgive me for this interruption, I…"
It was peculiar that an unfamiliar owl could bypass his wards. She must bear some special insignia, at the very least to perceive the house, and surely belonged to one of his most private correspondents.
“Hello, you,” said Perenelle, scratching the little owl’s head with a gentleness that surprised Albus. He had rarely seen the alchemist interact so warmly with postal birds, typically limiting her attention to the bare minimum.
Watching her stroke the small owl, which was practically melting under her touch, Nicolas smiled discreetly behind his glass. “My dear wife has always had a special fondness for wilderfolk.”
“A wilderfolk? Are you certain?” Albus raised an eyebrow, searching his mind for any acquaintances who might employ a wilderfolk as a postal owl. The practice wasn’t entirely obsolete, but it was uncommon. Wilderfolk loyalty had to be completely earned for their service to be reliable. They made exceptional companions, as evidenced by Argus and Miss Norris, and were far more useful than ordinary, even magical, animals. He knew of individuals who had shared profound and enduring friendships with their wilderfolk companions. However, those who came to mind were either deceased or, to his knowledge, did not have wilderfolk of this particular kind.
“Quite certain,” Nicolas confirmed, his tone calm and assured. “Her aura is unmistakable.”
By now, Perenelle had the little owl on her lap, its soft hoots of contentment filling the air. Its eyes closed as it leaned into the expert strokes of Perenelle’s fingers.
“Albus,” Perenelle said, her voice thoughtful, “this might give us some clarity about her origin.” She gently slipped a hand beneath the owl’s tiny body, lifting it slightly to reveal its legs, feathered in fine white plumage except for the tips of the talons. Most importantly, a small black ring encircled one leg—a ring that Albus immediately recognized, though he was accustomed to seeing it on an entirely different bird.
“I can hardly believe it,” he muttered, drawing his wand to lightly touch the ring. A letter burst forth in a fleeting swirl of light, and he caught it deftly, sensing against his skin the faint traces of Severus’s magic.
“What do you mean?” asked Perenelle, continuing to stroke the owl’s head. It pushed against her hand, clearly asking for more.
Casually, Nicolas made his way back toward the house, announcing that he would fetch some treats for the owl.
“I’m simply surprised by Severus’s choice,” Albus began, glancing at the letter. “The Potions Master at Hogwarts…” he trailed off, realizing he had never properly introduced Severus to his two dear friends.
“I’ve heard of him,” Perenelle interjected, her tone bright with recognition. “The youngest Potions Master in Britain in five centuries. He’s a frequent contributor to The Potionologist’s Almanac and The Mandrake Journal. I believe I’ve crossed paths with him at several seminars. A brilliant young man.”
“Brilliant, indeed,” Albus conceded, “but already deeply scarred and embittered. He’s an excellent professor, yet he lacks flexibility and empathy. As a mind mage, Severus would have been fully aware of the implications of replacing his old owl, Arold, with a wilderfolk. Knowing him, this decision was carefully considered. He values discretion and tranquility above all else and is notoriously solitary. This choice surprises me precisely because of that.”
At that moment, Nicolas returned, holding an open bag of treats. Perenelle eagerly took a piece and began feeding it to the little owl, who immediately recognized the packet and began to plead with soft, hopeful hoots. The sound was both endearing and demanding, an unmistakable request for more.
While the two Flamels were busy lavishing affection, compliments, and treats on the wilderfolk, Albus broke the seal of the letter and began reading. Severus’s missive provided a report on the state of the magical underworld and criminal networks in Britain, particularly regarding the Death Eater circles he frequented. Nothing unusual, Albus noted, apart from Lord Nott hiring a clandestine team of cursebreakers to handle cursed artifacts and an incident involving Greyback’s pack having been spotted in northern Norway, now being pursued by local authorities after a village attack.
The letter moved on to Severus’s customary inquiries about the ongoing negotiations between the Wizengamot, the governors, and the Ministry. Severus remained hopeful that these efforts might eventually lead to an increase in teaching staff, finally freeing him from teaching first-years. Albus mused that, while this task clearly irritated Severus, it was undoubtedly beneficial. Severus’s strict discipline set a high standard in his classes, and the results had been exceptional so far. The Potions class, one of the most dangerous subjects at Hogwarts, had not experienced a single accident since Severus took charge.
Albus suspected, however, that if Severus stopped teaching younger students, he would soon lament the poor preparation of those entering his advanced fifth-year classes. Still, he had to admit Severus had a point. His high expectations elevated the skills of talented students but often discouraged others who might have otherwise pursued a moderate, practical interest in potions.
Albus’s solution lay in a hybrid approach: Severus should continue teaching select courses, focusing on safety and essential fundamentals, while organizing tests or perhaps a club for the most passionate students. A new professor could handle the majority of the curriculum. But the persistent challenge remained: convincing the governors that Hogwarts urgently needed more teachers and staff to handle the post-war baby boom.
“Ah, this, I can do,” Albus thought as he read the next paragraph, which contained Severus’s requests for materials and ingredients for the upcoming year’s curriculum. Severus, ever exacting, revised his syllabus annually to ensure Hogwarts graduates had a broad and varied foundation in potion-making. (Albus also suspected that Severus did this to keep himself intellectually engaged.) It was a demand Albus was happy to accommodate—far better to spend public funds on education than see them line the pockets of unscrupulous politicians.
“Ah, here’s the explanation for the mystery,” Albus said, clearing his throat to draw the attention of his companions, who were still doting on the small wilderfolk. “His previous owl, Arold, has sadly passed away, and he’s chosen a new owl… Oh, he’s named her Anemone. She’s a little owl he adopted from a specialized shop in old London. Apparently, the merchant had no idea of the peculiar nature of his wares. That explains a lot,” he added, setting the letter on the table.
“But nothing about his true reasons for the choice,” Nicolas remarked.
“Do you know, Anemone?” Perenelle asked, scratching the owl’s neck. Anemone let out a small, pleased hoot in response.
“Justifying himself isn’t his style,” Dumbledore said, giving in to the temptation to stroke the owl’s soft feathers himself. “He merely states that this owl will now carry his messages.”
A gentle smile spread across Dumbledore’s face as he watched the small creature bask in the attention. Perhaps this hinted at a welcome shift in Severus. Maybe, just maybe, he was beginning to open up, allowing a touch of kindness to seep into the vast sea of his bitterness.