The Raven's Call

The Calm Before

Sunday, June 29th 1997

The night air is crisp, carrying the scent of parchment and the faintest trace of pine from the Forbidden Forest. I stand at the edge of the Astronomy Tower, my fingers gently stroking Fawkes's feathers as he perches on my shoulder. His warmth seeps into my skin, steady and familiar, like a quiet heartbeat beneath my palm. He trills softly, a sound that is neither demand nor question—just acknowledgment.

"I must thank you once again, Atticus."

Dumbledore's voice is gentle, carrying the weight of unspoken things. He stands a few steps away, hands folded neatly behind his back, his gaze fixed on the sprawling grounds below. "Fawkes has taken quite the liking to you."

I glance down at the bird, who blinks at me with those knowing golden eyes. "He's easy to take care of," I say, scratching just beneath his beak. "He likes company."

"Ah, indeed he does." Dumbledore chuckles softly. "He has always been a most loyal companion. Much like yourself."

Something about the way he says it makes my chest feel tight. I straighten, frowning slightly. "Professor?"

He turns to me fully now, his expression unreadable but weighted, like he's balancing something fragile in his words before he speaks them. "If something were ever to happen to me," he says carefully, "I would want you to look after him, permanently."

The words settle between us, heavy and inescapable. The tower suddenly feels smaller.

I shake my head. "Professor, nothing's going to—"

He lifts a hand, stopping me mid-sentence. "The future is ever uncertain, my boy. But in times of great change, we must think ahead." He glances at Fawkes, his fingers grazing the edge of his crimson plumage. "Phoenixes do not belong in cages, nor should they be left to fend for themselves without care."

I swallow hard. The thought of Dumbledore not being here—of this school without him—sits wrong in my stomach. But Fawkes shifts under my touch, and I realize that no matter how much I don't want to acknowledge it, Dumbledore is asking something of me. Something important.

I let out a slow breath. "I'd happily take care of him," I say, the words quiet but certain.

Dumbledore nods, as if he expected nothing less. "I know you would."

Silence settles between us, thick but not uncomfortable. Below, the castle breathes—torches flickering in the corridors, staircases shifting in slow, deliberate movements, the lake a dark mirror to the sky.

Dumbledore sighs, glancing up at the clouded sunset. "Come, Atticus. It is late. Even the brightest minds need rest."

I linger for a moment, fingers still ghosting over Fawkes's feathers. He watches me, tilting his head ever so slightly, as if he understands something I don't.

Then, with one last glance at the sky, I begin to follow Dumbledore down the tower steps, Fawkes's quiet trill lingering in the air beside me as I walk.

Just as we begin the journey down the long spiral staircase, Professor Snape's crooked nose appears. "Professor Dumbledore. I must speak with you."

"Ah, yes." Dumbledore acknowledges kindly. "Run along, Atticus. A headmaster's duty is never done," he chuckles, but there's a tired fondness in his eyes as he watches me go.