Interloper
Albus watched Tom Riddle and his nestling phoenix from a distance for the following week. He was not particularly gentle or kind to it. Unlike the third year Ravenclaws, he did not slice food off of his own plate for it and he did not bring it to class. He seemed, in fact, to be determined to keep it in his room aside from meals. Albus was certain it couldn’t be happy alone in the darkness of the dungeons.
Fawkes would have objected strenuously to being ignored that way.
Yet, the sunny thing seemed happy enough to entertain itself wandering up and down the Slytherin table accepting tidbits from admirers and singing brightly. It grew as fast as any other phoenix and was now too big to hold in one hand. Its feathers were grown in enough to see that they were patterned with spots and bars in shades ranging from pale lemon to a bronzy, nearly orange colour. It was going to look quite different from Fawkes’s crimson with gold highlights.
Albus waited for Mr. Riddle to show up to class with singed cuffs or burnt fingers. He waited for him to come asking for help interacting with the creature, which he clearly did not understand how to care for. He waited for any sign whatsoever that the new firebird was displeased with its chosen lost cause.
But that week passed, and then the next, and it did not happen.
Instead, one morning he woke up to find two phoenixes on Fawkes’s perch. They were chattering quietly as though deeply engaged in conversation. Albus lay still and listened to them for a while. It almost seemed as though they were trying not to wake him.
He’d never seen Fawkes interact with another phoenix, of course. He’d never seen another phoenix. Not from such a close distance, at least. The golden fledgling was a pretty thing. Fawkes seemed happy enough to share a perch with it, although they were carefully occupying opposite ends so as not to get too close to each other. It was Fawkes who noticed that he was awake, turning one sharp blue eye on him and tilting his head. The visitor ceased vocalising at once.
“Good morning,” he murmured. Since there was no reason to continue pretending to sleep, he sat up. Fawkes sang his usual greeting - four notes of a melody Albus had learned at his mother’s feet that Fawkes must have caught him humming early in their association with each other. The visiting phoenix sang an entirely different burble of melody, then hopped off the perch and alighted at the foot of his bed.
“Aren’t you an inquisitive creature?” he noted, and received a friendly chirp.
“And what of Mr. Riddle?” Albus asked. “Does he treat you well?”
The phoenix gave an ambivalent whistle. Albus liked to imagine that he was experienced at interpreting phoenix vocalisations by now. He found it odd that the golden phoenix did not sound particularly upset despite its tepid answer. It was as though it didn’t expect to be treated particularly well by Mr. Riddle. Odd indeed.
“Well, if you wish me to speak to him about it, do let me know,” he offered.
Fawkes made an irritable noise and the visiting phoenix made an amused one.
“I have the strangest feeling there is a conspiracy afoot which I have not been invited to participate in,” Albus commented. Both of them chirped in amusement at that. “I see.”
He stretched and swung his legs out of bed only to pause when the golden phoenix hopped across the covers to land at his elbow.
“Yes?” he asked.
It plucked at his sleeve and nibbled at his hand affectionately. He blinked at it and then glanced over at Fawkes, who seemed quite unconcerned.
Well. Either he was about to get his fingers singed, or he wasn’t. He gently stroked the visiting phoenix on top of the head like he might pet an unfamiliar cat. The students had, after all, passed it around the table without dire consequence those first two weeks. It responded with an affectionate chiming noise and leaned into his hand. It did not burn him, although he could feel the heat of its magic sparking under his fingers.
“How on earth did a boy like that manage to summon a snuggly thing like you?” he wondered. That was when the gold phoenix nipped him sharply and hopped out of reach. He eyed his pinched finger and determined that it wasn’t going to bleed.
“Hum,” he said, then sighed and got out of bed. The visiting phoenix sang a farewell and flashed away, leaving him alone with Fawkes.
“You don’t jealously guard me from other firebirds? What if that interloper tries to steal me away from you?” he asked lightly as he went to his wardrobe to dress.
Fawkes turned his beak to the sky and made a derisive noise as though he were being extremely foolish by even suggesting such a thing.