McGonagall opens her eyes with the first deep inhalation of the day. Rising from a light and dreamless sleep in the chilly hours before dawn, it takes a moment for her mind to sort out and reconcile itself to her less than familiar surroundings. Having spent much of the night in a seated position before a fireplace, she next becomes aware of her rather stiff neck, and the fact that the fire needs to be stoked. Even though she and Newt woke several times in the night to care for the wounded phoenix, and despite the sharp pain in her neck, she still wakes feeling better rested than she has done for much of the last three weeks. Lifting her hand to apply pressure to her sore neck, she realizes that there is no bird cradled in her arms. Straightening her posture so that she is no longer slumped in the chair, she turns slowly and when she finds Newt's chair empty, and he's nowhere to be seen within the tiny sitting room, she assumes that it was his movement that woke her. Guessing that he has gone in search of either a bathroom, or another cup of tea, she stays where she is and tries to massage away the pain in her neck as she listens to the sounds of the sleeping cottage.

Terrence Briard rises early nearly every day of the week, and because she can still hear his quiet snoring drifting down from the upper floor of the tiny house, she assumes it must still be earlier than 5:00 AM. The ceiling fan high overhead makes a soft creaking sound with each lazy rotation. The refrigerator hums faintly, and somewhere inside the house, a faucet drips sporadically. Without any real desire to move beyond the warmth of the quilt draped around her, she closes her eyes with the intent of returning to sleep and listens for the hushed sounds of Newt's return.

After what seems only a few minutes, she's caught in that nowhere place between waking and sleeping when a flurry of movement, sound, and anxiety, jerk her to her feet. Half blind, and with no idea where to find her spectacles, she feels her way to the kitchen, narrowly managing not to overturn a floor lamp along the way.

She pushes through the swinging kitchen door trying to stifle a yawn and finds Marie Briard in a sleeveless cotton night gown, her back pressed hard against the kitchen counter, with a plastic cup lying overturned on the floor in a puddle of milk that has splashed her bare legs and feet, as she points an accusatory finger at a very startled Newt Scamander and whispers in fright. "Not Terry. You go away! Not Terry. Where's my Terry? What did you do with him?"

McGonagall speaks softly. "It's alright Mrs. Briard."

The older woman's head whips around, her tousled ash blonde hair falling into her face as she cocks her head to one side and studies McGonagall curiously. After a silent beat, she smiles with recognition. "I know you. You're Albus's friend."

"Yes ma'am. That's right. I'm Minerva."

"You had a baby here in Albus's house. Sweet little baby girl, cried like a kitten."

"Yes ma'am, I did, and Mr. Scamander is one of the very few people who knows about that."

Marie Briard's eyes slide back to Newt, who is standing near the stove with his small patient nestled against his bare chest, and barely visible beneath the folds of his coat. "He is not Terry."

"No ma'am. He's Newt. He arrived last night to help Terry and myself care for an injured animal.".

"Baby girl?"

It takes McGonagall a second to filter back through their conversation and figure out where the other woman's train of thought derailed. "No ma'am. We're here taking care of an infant bird this time."

"Is our baby girl walking yet?"

McGonagall's smiles patiently. "Her name is Logan, and she's been walking for quite some time. She's a nurse now. Come on, let's get you cleaned up a bit. Watch your step, don't slip in the puddle."

Marie looks down at the mess on the floor and when she looks up again, confusion, humiliation, and contrition all collide in her worried eyes. "I'm sorry."

"There's no need to be. Accidents happen, and I'm guessing that Mr. Scamander probably startled you every bit as much as you startled him."

"Where's Terry?"

"He's upstairs asleep. Would you like to go and wake him?"

Marie pauses to think about this for a moment before slowly shaking her head. "He works hard. He needs his sleep."

McGonagall guides her around the puddle of milk, and after helping herself to the kitchen towel hanging from the oven door handle, she kneels and gently mops up the splattered milk on Marie's feet and calves before escorting her to a kitchen barstool.

While Newt cleans up the rest of the mess with the flick of his wand, Marie watches in fascination.

"I can't do that anymore. My magic has gone all wonky now. I make things blow up, and Terry doesn't like that. He took my wand away. I think I scare him sometimes."

McGonagall offers kindly, "He's not afraid of you, ma'am. He's afraid for you. He doesn't want you to hurt yourself. He loves you."

The confused old woman giggles like a schoolgirl and confesses in a stage whisper. "He says he's going to marry me."

McGonagall inhales quietly. "Does he, now?"

Marie nods her head with enthusiasm and continues to whisper loudly. "Mama doesn't like him. She says it's because his hands are always dirty, but they're not. Not always."

"I wouldn't let that bother me if I were you. He's a farmer. He's supposed to have dirty hands. Dirty hands mean he's doing his job."

"I don't mind. Besides, that's not why she doesn't like him. Not really. She doesn't approve because he's only half-blood, and she thinks that matters."

"Does it matter to you?"

"Nope, not a bit! He's as close to perfect as I've ever seen any man be."

"Then don't worry about what anybody else thinks. Would you like some more milk?"

Marie nods, offering her gratitude with a smile.

McGonagall picks up and washes the cup before she refills it from the glass bottle in the couple's tiny, antiquated refrigerator. Returning the bright blue plastic cup to Marie, she says, "It is still very early. Would you like to go back to bed and sleep a little longer?"

Marie takes less than a second to think it over before shaking her head vigorously. "We don't get a lot of company out here anymore." She shivers involuntarily. "Except for that Snape."

McGonagall presses her lips together to keep from smiling, doubtful that the older woman is aware that she's picked up her husband's chosen way of referring to Severus Snape.

"I don't like that man. He's just… wrong. He put Violet in a cage."

McGonagall takes in Marie Briard's disapproving scowl and then she turns her eyes to Newt, who approaches slowly, and pushing back the towel, puts the bird's small head on display.

"Is this Violet, ma'am?"

The befuddled lady of Briard cottage claps her hands together happily. "You got her out. You freed Violet!"

"Yes ma'am. She's very sick, we've been up with her all night, but I think she's turned the corner. I think soon she'll be alright."

"I tried to get her out of that ugly cage, but it was locked. So, I tried to cover her.

McGonagall raises an eyebrow. "You covered the cage?"

Marie nods emphatically. "I tried to get her out, but that bad man caught me touching the cage. I yelled at him, but he pushed me. He made me fall down and bleed." She lifts the hem of her nightgown putting her bare knees on display; revealing wounds that are thickly scabbed over and healing rather slowly. The skin covering her knees is both paper-thin and loose. Given her age, it isn't difficult for McGonagall to imagine that at their onset, the wounds must have appeared hideous and bled copiously

Frowning, McGonagall says softly, "I wish you had told Terry."

"I told him I fell down. Didn't tell about the bird. Terry would have fought that Snape, and he could have bested him too, but then Snape would have told, and Terry would have been the one in trouble. So, I couldn't tell. The mama bird was furious. She was screeching, making an awful ruckus. She bit that Snape on his ugly face, and when he hit her, she caught fire and burned him. I hit him with the heavy garden spade. His big nose squirted blood everywhere and he ran away screaming filth at us, but it was funny because he couldn't talk right. With all that blood gushing out, he had to pinch his nose, and he sounded like a duck." She almost smiles but then, shrugs sadly. "The lock wouldn't budge. Mama bird flew away. I tried to help baby Violet. I took her some nice fresh night crawlers, but she wouldn't eat."

Newt shakes his head. "She wasn't likely to eat under those conditions anyway, it's good you tried, but phoenix are herbivores. So, even under the best of conditions, she would've turned her beak up at worms."

Marie frowns thoughtfully. "She doesn't like worms?"

"Nope. Afraid not. She eats plants."

Marie wrings her hands, looking close to tears. "I didn't know… or maybe I forgot. I'm sorry."

"It's alright ma'am. At least you tried. That's what matters."

"I tried to move her cage so she wouldn't be wet, but it was too heavy for me. Snape came again and made me leave and when I tried to sneak back, the room under the barn was locked. I told him he was a good-for-nothin' git… treating that poor sweet bird like that. He spat at me and said I'd best hope Terry doesn't lock me in a cage."

McGonagall pats her shoulder. "Everything is going to be alright now. No one's going to put you in a cage. No one's going to put Violet back in one either, and Professor Snape won't be coming back."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, I am. He died three weeks ago."

Marie hugs herself as she begins to tremble in fear. "Is it my fault… Because I hit him."

"No. You needn't worry about that. Someone else was responsible, not you." Draping a comforting arm around her shoulders, McGonagall encourages quietly, "Come along. Let's go see if we can at least find you a proper dressing gown."

The two of them leave Newt standing in the kitchen talking sweetly to the small bird cradled against his chest. When they are halfway up the stairs, an alarm clock rings overhead and is quickly silenced. It takes only a matter of seconds for Terrence Briard to roll over, realize that he is alone in bed, and call out to his missing wife.

Minutes later, when on her way back to the kitchen, McGonagall begins turning on lights along her path, no longer worried about disturbing anyone's sleep. She finds her spectacles and slips them on as she pushes back through the swinging door.

Noticing that she's alone, Newt questions with a raised eyebrow, "Is she alright left on her own?"

McGonagall shakes her head. "I don't think she would be. Terry's awake. He said he'd help her dress."

"That has to be difficult. Caring for someone in her condition, while managing this place."

"Precisely why I thought we might give them a break this morning and prepare breakfast for them."

"The only thing I'm good at making for breakfast is eggs. I can make a nice omelet. That's it. Don't put me anywhere near a toaster. I burn the toast every time."

"Thanks for the warning. You mind the bird and leave the rest to me."

"That could work." He helps himself to a chair at the kitchen table. "Do you think she really hit Snape in the face with a garden spade?"

McGonagall smirks. "I know she did. It was a few evenings before the battle, he turned up for supper in a particularly nasty mood, sporting fresh bandages. One on his left cheek, presumably where the mother bird bit him. His nose was swollen. His right arm and hand were also bandaged. I couldn't see evidence of burns, but it fits. I asked what had happened to him. He told me I was a nosy old busybody, and that I should learn to mind my own business, lest somebody should decide to teach me a lesson."

Pulling his attention from the phoenix momentarily, Newt turns to face her with a curious light in his eyes. "And what did you say?"

McGonagall shrugs as she pours whole coffee beans into a grinder. "I told him he was welcome to try… If he thought he was big enough."

Newt chews on his lower lip, trying not to laugh. "And then what happened?"

He picked up his plate and his goblet and muttered something under his breath about taking his supper in his office. He didn't run, but he did leave the great hall rather quickly."

Chuckling, Newt declares, "Obviously, I attended Hogwarts at the wrong time. Can I come back?"

A dry wisp of laughter escapes McGonagall as she transfers freshly ground coffee into a percolator. Then, she surprises him by saying, "That's actually not a bad idea."

Newt squints in unmistakable confusion. "You do know I was kidding?"

"Yes but, hear me out. Hagrid's all set to teach Care of Magical Creatures. If I took that away from him, it would break his heart but, you could come do a series of guest lectures for our NEWT level classes and the students who are looking at magizoology as a likely career choice. You could center your lectures around caring for sick or injured creatures. Divide up your visits, according to creature classification, or however else you might want to do it. Hagrid still gets to teach the class, but you could visit three or four times - maybe once per term and offer an expert's advice on medical care, understanding how and why creatures are classified as they are, and educate the students about the laws pertaining to animal rights and proper handling."

"And Hagrid isn't going to be offended by this?"

"I'll tell him about the phoenix and what led us to have this conversation. I will make sure he understands the class is still his, and that I'm not looking to replace him. He is very knowledgeable. He does a good job with the classes. If however - and I realize this is a tall request - there is anything you can do to discreetly temper his enthusiasm for overfeeding combustible creatures…"

"Oh dear! That's not good at all, is it?"

McGonagall presses her mouth into a thin line. "A couple of years ago we had some blast-ended skrewts that grew to be more than 6 feet in length."

"Uh oh!" Newt nods his acceptance. "Okay, let's tentatively plan for twice per term. Work out when to put me on the schedule, send me an owl, and I will draw up lesson plans and make myself available."

"Good." She gives her wand a gentle flick and the various ingredients for crèpes exit the refrigerator and cupboards, toss themselves into a large bowl, and began mixing themselves together. One eye on the task at hand, she tilts her head in his direction and queries, "Speaking of animals, I've never seen a phoenix that had anything other than red and gold plumage. Not that I've seen many. Counting the one you're holding, that brings me to a total of two."

He nods. Most people, even most witches and wizards, go their whole lives without ever seeing one up close and personal. Red and gold is the norm. It is possible to come across a blue-banded phoenix, but even in my line of work, I've only seen a few."

"Blue-banded?"

"A very select number of phoenix are the standard red and gold but they also have a blue band, or stripe, that runs across the bottom third of their wings."

"And they are rare?"

Newt nods. "Exceptionally so."

"Okay. So, if red and gold is standard, why are her feathers purple and silver? Is that because of something Snape did to her?"

"I can't say for certain. If you don't mind, I'd like to observe her. I'm interested to know what color she will be after a good burning day and some regrowth of her plumage. It is possible to change their coloring, but it's not advisable. Anything that would bring about such a change would be terribly harsh. Either Snape did something to bring about the change, or…" Newt lapses into a thoughtful silence.

Turning her attention briefly away from a frying pan containing sausages, McGonagall raises an eyebrow and encourages, "Or what?"

"Or, as unlikely as it may be, one or, possibly even both of her parents may have an atypical coloring. Phoenix are incredibly resilient creatures. Anything severe enough to change their general appearance would also likely change the appearance of their offspring." He rubs the pad of his thumb gently against the top of the small bird's head, and she makes a soft noise of contentment in response. "If she lives long enough to mature and produce any offspring of her own, it's unlikely they will be the usual red and gold."

"Don't they…" She chooses her next word carefully. 'reset' with each burning day?"

"Normally, yes. That's why I said I'm interested to see what she will look like after having one. If she resurrects red and gold, then obviously whatever damage was done, it was not permanent. However, in spite of the awful condition of her feathers at present, she is unmistakably purple and silver. That kind of unusual coloring doesn't occur naturally, not even with poor treatment. Anything that causes permanent change of appearance… Well, something radical was done. If not to her then to her mother or father."

"I would say being locked in a cage, deliberately kept cold and wet, and having spikes pushed through her wings, is fairly radical. Lord only knows what else he did to her."

"Yes, but everything you just mentioned is limited to physical mistreatment. Usually, phoenix who have suffered lasting physical abuse will be less vibrant. They may not be a true red. They may go slightly orange and yellow. Their color will dull, but not change radically. Going from red and gold to purple and silver… Something like that usually requires tampering with their DNA. Was Snape smart enough to do that?"

McGonagall frowns, not quite sure how to answer. "How many witches and wizards do you know who know anything about DNA?"

Newt shrugs, feeling her reticence. "Maybe a few healers… Logan… maybe."

"Exactly. Those who do know anything about it usually acquire that knowledge by way of their careers. Snape was a potions master. One who hated his muggle parentage. He fully embraced being a wizard who excelled at potions. In all the years I knew him, I rarely ever heard him make a reference to anything in the muggle world. As far as bloodlines go, he and I had similar stories, muggle father, witch mother, but I grew up walking the fence between both worlds like it was some kind of high wire act. After I started school at Hogwarts, I was free to embrace both. As such, I'm comfortable in either. Snape, by comparison, shunned the muggle half of his existence and steadfastly pretended he knew nothing about it. No. I don't see him picking up a copy of Gray's Anatomy or trying to unravel the scientific mysteries of DNA."

Unfamiliar, Newt shakes his head and asks, "Who's anatomy?"

"Gray's Anatomy. It's a medical school textbook used by muggles."

"In that case, you know more than I do."

"Logan considered medical school. I'm not entirely certain she's given up on the notion."

"What's holding her back?"

"Time and energy. Every year she seems to get a little more invested in the job she has now. Plus, she gets stronger at managing her empathic abilities. As it gets easier for her, she uses up less of her magical energy containing and controlling it. As she's able, she gets me to teach her other things. Things she missed out on by not going to Hogwarts. If she were to undertake medical school, she'd have no time for anything else for at least 15 years. There's a part of her that wants to try but, she'd have to sacrifice a lot, including her slow but steady progress as a witch."

Newt admits, "I never thought about that. Did she want to attend Hogwarts?"

"Oh yes. At the age of eleven she just couldn't handle it. Being in the company of 1000 other children, day in and day out, for ten months out of the year… Teenagers, with normal teenage emotions. She would've had a meltdown five times a day. It broke her heart when we had to tell her she couldn't go."

"Brave kid. I would have run away from home if told I had to go to any school where one of my parents was a member of the faculty."

"I'm sure that thought gave her a moment's pause, but it wasn't enough to deter her. Not being able to go, it devastated her. For a time, I worried she wouldn't recover. She's still quite the novice when it comes to being a witch, but each time she decides she's ready to learn something new…" McGonagall shakes her head. "She tries so hard. I don't know where she gets the drive from."

Newt laughs aloud. "I know precisely where, or should I say, whom, she gets her determination from."

McGonagall shakes her head again. "Thank you, but I'm afraid I didn't give her the best start possible. She's had to overcome so much. Sometimes, just watching her makes me want to lay my weary head down."

"You did the best you could. Under the circumstances, you did the best anybody could've done."

"I hope so." McGonagall declares firmly, wanting to put a stop to the conversation.

"I'm telling you. That girl is phenomenal, and you're the reason why. You… and the rest of your family."

"That last bit is certainly true. I had a lot of help."

Aware of her reluctance to say more on the topic, he nods toward the bird in his arms, changing the subject. "What are you going to do with her?"

McGonagall stresses the third word. "What am 'I' going to do with her?"

"She needs someone to look after her. At least until she's well enough to do it herself. Especially since, she has apparently been abandoned."

"Well, I thought I'd leave her with a trained expert until she's ready to be released."

"I don't think so. You said it yourself last night. She's 'your bird' at least until she's well enough to make her own decision on the matter."

McGonagall frowns. "When I called her 'my bird' I was attempting to indicate that I would take responsibility for her in order to allow you a few hours' sleep."

"Has she nipped at you, or even once tried to get away from you?"

"No, but that's not a reasonable argument in support of her staying with me. She hasn't tried to get away from you either."

"You went to an awful lot of trouble for this bird that's not yours."

McGonagall scoffs. As she spoons batter onto a hot griddle. "I just did what anybody else would do."

"That's not true, and you know it. Especially with everything else you've got on your plate."

"Alright, fine." She declares irritably. "I did what anybody else 'should' do. How's that?"

Newt nods. "That's acceptable."

"I thought you wanted to observe her."

As the Briards step into their kitchen, Newt answers, "I do, and I will. I know where to find you." He turns to the bird in his arms. "What do you say, Violet? Hogwarts needs a new resident phoenix. Do you want to go home with Professor McGonagall?"

The bird trills softly.

Newt grins. "See, she says yes."

"Horse feathers!"

"No… phoenix feathers!"

McGonagall glances at the bird with obvious doubt. "This is not a good idea."

Marie crosses the room to stand beside Newt and eyes the bird with warm longing. "She can stay here."

Terrence clears his throat. "No, I'm sorry, but she cannot."

Marie turns wounded eyes his way. "Terry!"

"I am sorry sweet'eart, but no. I would never do anything to cause 'er 'arm, but if she needs to be looked after, zen she cannot stay 'ere. I 'ave enough to do already. I don't know zee first zing about looking after a sick phoenix and I don't 'ave time to learn. I did not look after Fawkes, not even when 'e was 'ere. Albus was zee expert. I wish it were, but zis is not zee place for 'er."

McGonagall sighs. "There's no need to explain, I completely understand. I hope you like crèpes, Marie."

Their morning meal turns out to be a quiet affair with Marie quietly sulking over the imminent departure of the bird, and her husband silently wishing that things could go differently. After the table is cleared and the kitchen tidied, Terrence pulls McGonagall aside while Marie is busy fawning over the bird, and whispers quietly. "I am sorry. Truly, I wish zee little bird could stay. It would make Marie so 'appy, but I just…"

"Terry, stop. You do not need to explain. You must be stretched pretty thin out here on your own with Marie to look after."

His nod is almost imperceptible. "Right now, I take 'er wiz me when I am working outdoors. If I 'ave to go into town, zere's a place where she can go to spend zee day. Zey are good to 'er, but she does not like going zere. It upsets 'er routine. She knows she goes zere on Mondays and if she remembers zat it is Sunday, she gets agitated just zinking about it."

"Let me help." McGonagall says plainly.

"You 'ave 'elped already. You made breakfast for us. Zat is a bigger 'elp zan you know, and you did not 'ave to do it. If you find zat bird a proper 'ome zat would be even better. I won't 'ave to worry about what trouble Marie gets up to wiz zee bird. She cannot take proper care of 'er, and I just do not have zee time, or frankly, zee energy."

"I've helped you get through one meal and that was after I camped out in your sitting room all night. Not to put too fine a point on it, Terry, but as things progress, you're going to have to accept help from somewhere. Especially if you want to keep her at home."

He is quiet for a moment, watching his wife talk to the bird. Then, he says, "Oui, but what can you do? You 'ave an entire castle to rebuild."

"I have a very capable house elf. She's served Phin's family. After he passed away, I offered her the option to either go and live with his sister or stay with me. Benna chose to stay. If I ask her to, I'm certain she will come stay here with you for as long as you need her. She's quiet and does a good job cleaning up after me. She's not much of a cook, but on the rare occasion that we are away from the castle, I prefer to do my own cooking. She can handle simple meals adequately. You might have to be on hand first thing in the morning just to get Marie's day started, but for the time being, I'm sure she could look after Marie here in the cottage while you're tending to the property."

"I do not know." Terrence says reluctantly.

"At least give her a try. If it doesn't work out, send her back to the castle, no questions asked. If it does work out, it would take a load off your shoulders. I can bring her by tomorrow evening before supper. The three of you can get acquainted."

Still doubtful, Terry scratches his head. "I am not ready to say yes, but if you are certain you do not mind, zen pick a day zat is convenient for you, and bring zee elf in the morning after breakfast. Marie is much more lucid in zee mornings. As zee day fades, so does she. Zee introductions will go better earlier in the day."

McGonagall nods. "Tomorrow morning is no good for me, and Tuesday's going to be jam packed. How about Wednesday morning? 10:00 AM?"

He nods slowly. "You are sure, it is no trouble? Who will look after you?"

"I'm fairly self-reliant. On the rare occasion that I'm not, Hogwarts has a kitchen full of house elves. It will not be a problem."

"Alright, zen. I will give zee elf a tr..." He stops speaking abruptly and moves to the nearest window with curiosity when forlorn and urgent birdsong is heard outdoors.

McGonagall exchanges a look of surprise with Newt and quietly shakes her head, resolutely refusing to allow herself to be swept away by hope. "It can't be."

When the bird in Newt's arms tries in vain to flap her small, damaged wings in response to the call of her own kind, he raises an eyebrow. "Are you sure about that Professor?"

Holding herself steady against the flutter of rising excitement in her chest, McGonagall sets her mouth into a grim line and joins Terrence at the window. Placing a hand on his shoulder, she pushes aside the checkered green and white café style curtain that partially blocks her view.

She searches the sky for a long moment before she sees some misshapen thing level with the horizon, backlit by the rising sun, and gliding their way. Removing her spectacles, she waits for the unidentifiable shape in the sky to get near enough to recognize.

A full five seconds pass before she understands that what she is looking at is not one bird, but two, flying one in front of the other. Another three seconds, and she stares at the lead bird, frowning in mild confusion, until her gaze shifts.

She leaves Newt and the Briards staring after her in utter shock when the spectacles in her hand fall to the floor and shatter, as sudden tears of unexpected joy appear, and slide unchecked down her face as she turns and runs from the kitchen.

The three of them chase after her in mild alarm as she exits the cottage and flies across the porch and down the front steps without a word.

McGonagall doesn't stop moving until she's halfway between the farmhouse and the barn. Then, with her face turned to the sky, she lifts her right arm, offering a perch for the familiar inbound red and gold male.

Staring at him in complete wonder, she tries to speak, but it's no use. Words won't come.

The bird croons softly as she strokes his chest in tender greeting. Moving to her shoulder, he caresses her tear-stained face with his head until she takes hold of herself and walks him to the farmhouse and lowers her shoulder until he can step off and perch on the porch railing.

She manages a trembling smile and whispers, "Hello Fawkes."

He trills sweetly.

"I thought you were gone for good, but here you are..." Her gaze briefly flits to his flying companion. "and you brought a friend."

The female phoenix hovers a few feet away, unsure that it is safe to approach until Fawkes squawks softly and struts left and right on the porch railing in invitation.

Sensing that she is uncomfortable with strangers, McGonagall takes two steps back, and waits for her to settle near Fawkes. However, the bird no more than touches down before she takes flight again because Marie Briard announces excitedly, "She came back!"

Terrence squeezes his wife's shoulders with gentle affection. "Quietly sweet'eart. You are scaring her."

Marie drops her voice apologetically. "That's her. She's mama bird. She came back!"

Newt is caught between staring at the curious female bird in obvious delight and trying to calm the young one in his arms as she twitters and squeaks in response to the commotion, drawing immediate attention to herself. Shushing the little bird, he forces himself to stand perfectly still and not retreat so much as a single step as the female takes flight again and hovers inches away from his face in response to the anxious call of her young. His words are barely audible when he says, "She's alright. We haven't hurt her... and you are an absolutely beautiful lady. I've never seen anything quite like you." Slowly, he turns his hand palm down and stretches his fingers out, moving toward her until she pecks hard, instantly drawing a trickle of blood and squawking angrily.

Newt grimaces in response to the pain, as he quickly lowers his hand. "Right then. I understand. I won't touch you."

The bird backs a safe distance away, and then quickly returns, ruffling her feathers in agitation in response to the excited noises still coming from her young one.

"Yes, I know. You want to see her, don't you?" Newt soothes as he sidles nearer to Fawkes. Careful to move very slowly, he hopes that, when Fawkes doesn't react with aggression, the untrusting female will take her cue from him. Making eye contact, he says affably, "Hello, old man. Smashing to see you again."

Fawkes croons deeply, and when Newt is finally able to move near enough, the male bird hops from the porch railing to his shoulder and turns his sharp black eyes to the towel-wrapped bundle in Newt's arms.

Newt holds perfectly still and watches, mesmerized as the unusually, but beautifully colored female hovers a safe distance away and cocks her head to one side in curiosity as she watches Fawkes walk down his arm and gently nuzzle the young bird's head with his own.

Pleased with the familiar contact, the little bird settles a bit and, although still excited, she chirps and trills more softly.

Still trying for a show of good faith, Newt extends both arms slowly, holding his small bundle out toward the female. When she still won't settle, he shrugs as if it's no big deal, and carefully lowers the young bird to the porch railing and lets her towel fall to the ground. To his relief, once free of his arms, the poor bedraggled bird demonstrates that she is at least strong enough to stay upright on the porch railing when she does not fall over but instead, makes a tentative effort to stretch her bandaged wings. When she cries out in pain and frustration, Fawkes leaves Newt's arm to lightly touch down beside her on the railing.

Still moving with exaggerated care, Newt steps quietly away, hoping that if he's not too near, the female will feel safe enough to join them. When she doesn't do so right away, he quietly motions for the others to step back as well.

Once they all are a few meters from the birds, the female returns to the porch railing and settles on the side opposite Fawkes so that the baby bird is nestled between them.

Fumbling in the pocket of his blue coat, Newt finds, and wordlessly offers McGonagall his handkerchief and, grateful for it, she mops up her tears, asking barely above a whisper, "Have you ever seen…"

He shakes his head in the negative before she's even done asking her question, whispering back just as quietly, "No. Never."

"What a beautiful bird!"

Newt nods in silent agreement as he takes in the sight of the worried mother bird with her midnight blue feathers tipped in a brilliant white that is purer than fresh snowfall. "She is magnificent!"

The four onlookers watch in rapt silence as the two adult birds lean over the injured little girl and begin to weep thick, iridescent, pearly white tears that splash gently against the crown of her tiny head before trickling down and soaking into the feathers along her back and both of her injured wings. Nestled happily between the two of them, the infant phoenix begins to sing, her young voice growing strong and confident as her abused body begins to heal. In less than a minute she is able to stretch her wings as far as her bandages will allow, and although her necrotic feathers do not seem to mend as well as the punctures to her wings, she lifts her head high, inhales deeply to expand her small chest, and bursts into brilliant white-golden flames that are beyond dazzling.

Pleasantly taken aback, McGonagall exclaims. "Well!"

Beside her, Newt concurs. "That was breathtaking!"

As her ashes begin to float on the early morning breeze, the young phoenix pulls herself back together again and re-emerges newborn and featherless, but making soft, riveting noises of contentment deep inside her chest; her flames having injured neither of the adult birds at her side.

Newt watches, suddenly perplexed to realize that the young bird seems to be getting equal affection from both, her mother and Fawkes.

Noticing his frown of concentration, McGonagall questions, "What? Is something wrong?"

He shakes his head. "No, I expected the female to cry over her. Especially since Mrs. Briard says she's her mum. Sometimes, females can even be compassionate enough to cry over sick or injured young that do not belong to them, but males…"

"What?" McGonagall demands quietly as she turns her dark, penetrating gaze his way.

Newt shrugs. "Well… I've never seen males cry over any young but their own."

McGonagall inhales sharply as she returns her eyes to the trio of birds. "Are you saying that she's…"

Newt nods slowly. "I think so. I mean unless things have changed rather drastically without my knowledge. Red and blue do still make purple when mixed together, don't they?"

McGonagall finds fresh tears in her eyes, and dashing at them hopelessly with Newt's borrowed handkerchief, she laughs softly and declares, "Fawkes, you clever bird! Look what you did! She's perfect!"