"Some wizards study magic to control it. Others study magic to let it loose. I prefer the latter; they throw better tea parties." — Albus Dumbledore
January 8, 1970
The stone gargoyle loomed before him, its features eroded by centuries of watchfulness, the grooves along its wings slick with candle soot and age.
Vega paused, the dragon-hide satchel pressed against his chest like a shield. Within, Raijin slept, coiled in the warmth of a charm-forged scarf, his dreams marked by the low, electric hum that pulsed through the leather.
"Password?" rasped the gargoyle, its mouth grinding open, dust sifting down like snowfall on a tomb.
"Cockroach Cluster," Vega whispered, recalling the Headmaster's cryptic farewell of the previous evening.
The statue groaned, a deep tectonic sound of stone protesting motion. "Appalling choice," it muttered, and stepped aside with a reluctant scrape of claws.
The wall behind it parted as if sighing, revealing the spiral staircase that wound upward like a turning thought. Vega stepped onto the first moving stair. Warmth rose to meet him, tinged with the scent of parchment, ash, and...wet fur? The air shimmered faintly, as though the tower itself breathed.
At the summit, an oak door awaited. Before his knuckles could make contact, a familiar voice, rich as honey and old laughter, called from within.
"Come in, Mr. Black! The tea is steeping, and Fawkes is feeling delightfully conversational!"
Vega entered.
The Headmaster's office was a living contraption of polished memory and eccentric grace. Sunlight fractured through prisms, scattering rainbows across shelves where silver instruments whirred, blinked, and sighed in quiet wonder. Portraits of former headmasters snored in solemn rhythm, their painted breath fogging the glass of their frames.
Behind the desk sat Albus Dumbledore, resplendent in robes the colour of sunset caught in glass. His eyes sparkled like secrets that enjoyed being half-kept. But the Headmaster was not alone.
Sitting in a chintz armchair, looking distinctly uncomfortable in a tweed suit that had seen better decades, was a man with a shock of tawny hair and a face that was more freckle than skin. He was currently trying to stop a small, green creature that looked like a stick insect from picking the lock on Dumbledore's desk drawer.
A Bowtruckle dangled from the armrest, industriously attempting to jimmy open a desk drawer.
"Pickett, no," the man whispered urgently. "That is the Headmaster's sherbet supply. It is not for nesting."
"Vega," Dumbledore beamed, gesturing to the empty chair. "Come in, come in. May I introduce Mr. Newt Scamander?"
The name hit Vega like a key turning in a lock. Newt Scamander. The chronicler of a thousand beasts. War Hero. The Author of Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them. The man who arguably knew more about magical creatures than any living wizard.
"The author?" Vega managed.
Newt looked up, and for a heartbeat his gaze fled in every direction but Vega's eyes, as though shy of direct reverence. His smile, when it came, was crooked and tender.
"Author's a frightfully heavy word," he said almost apologetically. "I like to think of myself as an enthusiast. And you must be the young fellow who brought a thunderstorm to Scotland."
He stood up, unfolding his lanky frame. He didn't look at Vega's face. He looked straight at the satchel.
"Is he awake?" Newt asked softly. "The Lei Shen?"
"He's dozing," Vega replied, fingers working the clasp. "He overindulged on lightning."
From within the dim leather, something stirred.
Raijin emerged, scales glinting obsidian-blue, crystalline horns tracing faint glows like veins of captured starlight. The air around him hummed with static life. He flicked a tongue woven from ozone, tasting the room.
Newt let out a breath of pure delight. "Oh," Newt whispered, sinking to his knees so he was eye-level with the satchel. "Look at you. You're beautiful."
He didn't reach out. He made a low, clicking sound in the back of his throat, a sound that vibrated the air.
Raijin perked up. He slithered out of the bag, coiling up Vega's arm to inspect the stranger. "A Northern varietal," Newt murmured, his eyes tracking the creature's movement. "You see the antler buds? Coral-structure. He's going to be big. Very big."
"How big?" Vega asked, watching Raijin sniff Newt's hair.
"Oh, massive," Newt said cheerfully. "About the length of a Quidditch pitch. But not for a century or so."
A trill of song cut through the room.
A clear, piercing note rippled through the office — the cry of something other. Ethereal, with the same uncaring majesty of the dawn, Fawkes descended from his golden perch, trailing plumes of fire and grace and landed on the back of Vega's chair.
Raijin hissed sharply, sparks haloing his form. Fawkes regarded him with patient curiosity and extended his beak.
"Careful," Vega began, but Dumbledore's voice floated through the rising tension.
"Let them converse," he said, eyes gleaming over the rim of his teacup. "Flame and Storm are cousins, Vega.
The phoenix and the thunder-serpent met beak to snout. Light entwined with light, red and blue merging into violet — a colour that did not exist in nature, but was born in that instant.
"Fascinating," Newt breathed. "You see? He's imprinting. He doesn't see a threat, only kinship." His gaze flicked to Vega at last. "You hatched him yourself, didn't you?"
"I had to," Vega admitted. "The storm wasn't strong enough alone. I bridged it."
"Mmm," Newt nodded, deeply satisfied. "Then he's not merely a storm-spirit. He's yours in resonance, fed on your chaos, shaped by your will. A mutable creature for a mutable bond."
Newt stood up and walked over to his battered brown suitcase, which was sitting by the fire. "You can't keep him in a dormitory," Newt said, clicking the latches open. "It's too dry. His scales will crack. He needs humidity. He needs the memory of a monsoon."
"Grandfather suggested a ward," Vega said. "Wards are walls," Newt dismissed, rummaging through the case.
"You don't put a storm in a box. You give it a sky."
He pulled out a glass jar. It looked empty, but when he shook it, it sounded like heavy rain hitting a tin roof.
"Here," Newt said, handing it to Vega. "What is it?"
"Atmospheric condensation from the Amazon rainforest," Newt said simply. "I collected it in '26. If you unstopper this in your trunk, just for a second, it will create a localized micro-climate. High humidity, low pressure. Perfect for a growing Lei Shen."
He dug around again and pulled out a handful of what looked like grey wool. "And this is Cloud-fluff. From a Thunderbird's nest in Arizona. Line his bed with it. It holds static charge. It'll keep him fed between storms so you don't have to ask Albus to pull the sky down every Tuesday."
Vega took the gifts. The wool tingled against his skin. "Thank you, sir," Vega said. "Don't thank me," Newt said, closing the case.
"Just... don't let the Ministry find him. They have a terrible habit of classifying anything with teeth as 'Dangerous' and trying to execute it. They don't understand that a creature is only dangerous if you treat it like a threat."
"Tea?" Dumbledore interposed cheerfully, lifting a teapot that glowed softly from within. "It's a blend I picked up in Kathmandu. It has a delightful tendency to make one remember where they left their keys."
The liquid in the cups was golden and actually glowed. Vega took a sip. It tasted like honey, and lemon, and Vega could feel his Hum relax.
"So," Dumbledore said, leaning back. "You have a dragon scale. You have a Lei Shen. You have a Newt Scamander habitat kit. You are becoming quite the collector, Vega."
"I prefer curator, Headmaster," Vega smiled, stroking Raijin, who had fallen asleep on Fawkes's tail. "Curator," Dumbledore mused. "A good word.
"Ownership implies control," Vega said, fingers brushing the storm-slick scales. "I don't control the lightning, Professor. I just ride it."
Newt let out a sudden, bark-like laugh. "That's what I told the MACUSA president when my Thunderbird escaped in New York. She didn't find it amusing."
"Bureaucrats rarely have a sense of rhythm," Dumbledore agreed."
Newt's laugh barked sharp and sudden. "I told the MACUSA president nearly the same thing when my Thunderbird escaped. She wasn't amused."
"Bureaucrats," Dumbledore said dryly, refilling their cups, "rarely are."
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Vega stayed for an hour, listening to Newt talk about the mating habits of Graphorns and watching Dumbledore turn a teaspoon into a canary just to amuse Raijin.
When he finally stood to leave, tucking the jar and the wool into his satchel, he felt lighter.
"Mr. Scamander," Vega said at the door. "Will you be staying at Hogwarts?"
"Just for the day," Newt said, putting his hat on. "I'm heading to Norway. Rumors of a Troll migration. But if the Lei Shen starts shedding sparks, send me an owl. Or a paper airplane. I'm not picky."
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Newt Scamander had departed via the fireplace in a burst of emerald flames.
The office settled back into its rhythmic ticking. Silver instruments spun on their spindles, puffing rings of scented smoke, and the portraits of past Headmasters returned to their synchronized snoring.
Vega remained in the chintz armchair. The Lei Shen, Raijin, was now awake and alert, coiled around Vega's neck like a scarf of living obsidian, watching Fawkes with unblinking golden eyes. The phoenix stared back, occasionally preening a feather that glowed with the heat of a dying ember.
"More tea?" Dumbledore offered, the teapot levitating to refill Vega's cup.
"No thank you, sir," Vega said, though he accepted the refill. He watched the steam rise from the cup; it swirled, forming tiny, impossible shapes, dragons, towers, ships sailing on clouds.
"Professor," Vega started, his curiosity getting the better of his prudence. "Grandfather speaks of the 'Old Ways'," Vega , stroking Raijin's spine. "He talks about the Deep World. The places that aren't on the map. You've been there, haven't you? The Nevernever."
The whimsical air in the room shifted. It didn't vanish, but it gained density. The shadows stretched slightly. Fawkes stopped preening.
"The Nevernever," Dumbledore mused, tasting the word. "The Fae Courts. The Spirit World. The Dreaming. It has many names, and it answers to none of them."
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk.
"It is not a place you go to, Vega. It is a place you fall into. It is the reflection of our world in a mirror made of malice and whim alike."
Dumbledore waved his hand over his teacup.
The steam expanded. It built a scene. A landscape of towering spires made of blue ice, a sky of eternal twilight, and a forest where the trees were made of white bone.
"I spent a summer there once," Dumbledore said softly, watching the steam-sculpture. "Or perhaps it was a century. Time is... fluid in the Winter Court. I was debating the concept of 'Entropy' with the Queen of Air and Darkness."
"Mab," Vega whispered, recognizing the name from the darker fairy tales in the Black library.
"Indeed. A charming conversationalist, provided you don't mind that her words can literally freeze your blood."
Dumbledore tapped the desk. A tiny steam-figure of a younger Dumbledore appeared, standing before a massive, crystalline throne.
"She offered me a bargain," Dumbledore recounted. "The Fae love bargains. She offered me the knowledge of how to freeze a moment in time, absolute preservation. In exchange, she wanted a memory."
"Which memory?"
"The memory of what it feels like to be warm," Dumbledore said.
Vega felt a chill. "If you gave that up..."
"I would never feel warmth again," Dumbledore nodded. "I would be immune to fire, but I would live in a perpetual internal winter. A fair trade, she argued, for immortality."
"What did you do?"
"I cheated," Dumbledore said, his eyes crinkling.
The steam-Dumbledore in the illusion pulled something from his pocket. A match. He struck it.
"I told her that warmth is not a memory," Dumbledore said. "It is a reaction. I lit a match in the heart of her ice palace. It was a tiny thing. Insignificant. But in a realm of absolute cold, that single flame was an insult. It was a paradox."
The steam-throne shattered.
"She was furious. She threw me out. I landed in a snowdrift in the Urals, three weeks late for the start of term, with frostbite on my nose and a very angry letter from the Board of Governors."
Dumbledore chuckled, waving his hand. The steam collapsed back into simple vapor.
"The lesson, Vega, is that the Deep World is seductive. It offers power. It offers absolutes. But it takes the messy, chaotic, warm parts of your humanity as payment. And those are the parts worth keeping."
Dumbledore opened a drawer in his desk. He rummaged past a bag of lemon drops and a suspiciously twitching Sneakoscope, pulling out a small, jagged object.
He slid it across the desk.
It was a compass. But the face was cracked, and the needle didn't point north. It spun wildly, vibrating like a trapped insect.
"A Wayfinder," Dumbledore said. "It doesn't point north. It points to the nearest 'thin spot'—the places where the veil between our world and the Nevernever is worn through."
Vega picked it up. The needle snapped to attention, pointing directly at Raijin.
"It likes Raijin," Vega noted.
"It likes the Other," Dumbledore corrected. "Keep it. If you ever find yourself walking in a forest that feels too quiet, or a corridor that seems to stretch forever... check the needle. If it spins, turn back. Or, if you are feeling particularly Gryffindorish, walk faster."
"Why give this to me?" Vega asked, pocketing the compass.
"Because you are a Black," Dumbledore said, his voice serious. "Your family has a habit of walking through doors without checking what is on the other side. And because you carry a storm around your neck. The spirits will be drawn to you, Vega. You are becoming a beacon."
He stood up, signaling the end of the meeting.
"The world is becoming a dangerous place, my boy. Walls are being built. Sides are being chosen. But there are older powers than political parties. Do not forget them."
Vega stood, settling his satchel. Raijin hissed a goodbye to Fawkes, who let out a musical trill in response.
"Thank you, Headmaster," Vega said.
"One last thing," Dumbledore said, eyes twinkling again. "If you do ever meet Queen Mab... do tell her I still owe her a dance. I believe I promised her a waltz before she tried to turn me into an ice sculpture."
Vega laughed. "I'll mention it."
He walked to the door. As he grasped the handle, he looked back.
Dumbledore was standing by the window, looking out at the snowy grounds. He looked old. He looked powerful. He looked like a man who was holding back a winter far colder than the one outside.
"Headmaster?"
"Yes, Vega?"
"The match," Vega said. "In the ice palace. Did it stay lit?"
Dumbledore turned, and for a second, the reflection of the fire in his glasses made his eyes look like burning gold.
"It is still burning, Vega," Dumbledore whispered. "Even the darkest winter cannot kill a flame that refuses to go out."
Vega nodded. He stepped out onto the spiral stairs, the gargoyle grumbling as he descended.
Don't trade the warmth, Vega thought, heading back to the dungeons. And always carry a match.