How weird, that was Draco's first thought.
The phoenix, it wasn't normal.
Its plumage was neither crimson nor gold.
In the dim lamplight of the small inn room, its feathers appeared silvery, almost opalescent, with faint streaks of deepest midnight blue at the tips.
The glow surrounding it was more moonlight than sunlight—pale and oddly comforting.
For several heartbeats, Draco simply stared.
The creature hovered just above his bed, wings outstretched in a slow, steady rhythm.
He realised belatedly that his left hand was crushing the bed's quilt.
Slowly, he let go, flexing tense fingers.
The phoenix regarded him with what could only be described as patience—like it had all the time in the world.
Feeling almost foolish, Draco cleared his throat. "You…"
He paused, uncertain of how one properly addressed an otherworldly bird that had appeared unannounced and aided him in his time of need.
"I suppose you helped me," he said at last, somewhat grudgingly.
The phoenix cocked its head to one side.
Even without words, Draco sensed a question in that tilted gaze, as if it were urging him to keep speaking. Perhaps it just wanted to make sure he wasn't about to collapse again.
"I—I'm fine," he lied, trying to stand.
His knees still trembled from the panic attack.
Pain lingered in his muscles, remnants of the Cruciatus weeks earlier.
For once, he admitted the truth to himself: he was not fine—*no—*not even close.
But weakness, as his father used to say, was an invitation to be trampled.
Slowly, Draco moved to the battered wooden desk.
The phoenix followed, gliding noiselessly and perching at the edge.
As Draco slid into the chair, he noticed the scattered pages and open notebooks—his scribbled attempts at decoding the advanced mind-arts text, Into the Mind.
With a slight twitch of its wings, the phoenix hopped closer and nudged one of the pages.
Its beak—silver like a polished blade—tapped lightly at a portion of Draco's scrawled notes.
"Alright, so you want me to keep working?" Draco ventured, voice still shaky. "I'm not sure how much you actually understand… or if you're just mocking me."
He rubbed his temples. Perhaps the lingering adrenaline had him imagining intentions that weren't really there.
Instead of answering—of course, it couldn't—the phoenix fluttered once around the room. Its flight stirred the stale air and carried a rush of coolness against Draco's cheeks.
He couldn't tell why, but it felt like the bird was scanning his surroundings, or checking something beyond his sight.
A sudden rap at the door made Draco's heart leap into his throat.
Wand in hand, he whirled, pulse surging.
"Mr. Malfoy?" came Madam Rosmerta's muffled voice. "Are you alright in there? I thought I heard…" She hesitated, perhaps deciding not to admit she'd heard him cry out. "I've brought you some supper."
The phoenix vanished in a burst of cool blue light—no swirl of flame, no smoke, just a ripple in the air, and then it was gone.
What the bloody hell is happening? he wondered, not for the first time in the last week.
He took a breath to steady himself, gripped the doorknob, and eased it open. Rosmerta stood on the threshold with a covered tray. Her face was lined with concern.
"Supper," she repeated, stepping gingerly into the room when he waved her in. "I'm making sure you're eating properly. You look tired." She placed the tray—two bowls of steaming stew and a small loaf of bread—on a side table.
Her eyes flicked over the piles of notes and the worn black-and-silver tome lying half under them.
Draco wanted to snatch the pieces of parchment and hide them but thought better of it.
Drawing attention by being defensive would only make things worse.
The last thing he needed was to be questioned by aurors on his research into mind magic…
If Rosmerta found them suspicious, she did not say so.
Draco forced a nod of thanks. "You're too kind," he managed, voice still raw.
She surveyed him for another moment as if deciding whether to pry. "If you need… anything else, Mr. Malfoy," she said gently, "you only have to ask."
He resisted the urge to scoff. She was being decent—decent in a way he couldn't remember ever seeing in the Manor. Realising how hollow he must look, he chose politeness over pride.
"Thank you," he murmured and left it at that.
Rosmerta offered a subdued smile and retreated. Draco set about devouring the stew—salty, but hearty enough. In the back of his mind, the memory of the silver-blue phoenix lingered.
Why did it choose to reappear now? And when did I see it again? I can't seem to remember—it's as if… something's stopping me from focusing on that particular memory.
When the meal was done, Draco cleaned the bowl with a silent Vanishing Spell and steeled himself.
The phoenix's arrival had banished his panic attack, but it also left with unanswered questions.
Every phoenix he had ever heard of was a creature of golden or red flame.
A silver-blue phoenix sounded as unlikely as a thunderstorm in the Sahara.
Was it even a phoenix at all?
Why did it come to him, and why did it help?
And most importantly, when have I seen it before?
He returned to the desk, pushing aside the copies of muggle brain diagrams and his frantic notes on Occlumency.
Slowly, he flipped Into the Mind to a random page.
The stylised eye on the cover had always left him uneasy, but the content inside was what he truly dreaded.
Yet somewhere within those pages lay the knowledge that might just help to keep him alive.
After everything he'd lost, after Donna's probable demise, after the torture… Draco couldn't afford half-measures.
He set quill to parchment. No more excuses. If it took reading every vile word, if it meant shouldering nightmares for months, so be it.
He would master his own mind—and maybe the Dark Arts—before anyone else decided his fate.
As he worked, he kept stealing glances at the corner of the room, half-expecting to see a glimmer of blue fire.
But for the rest of the evening, he was alone.
Only the scratch of his quill and the faint crackle of the lamp wick accompanied him until exhaustion finally claimed him.
When sleep came, Draco dreamed of silver flames dancing in an endless twilight, and a low, distant melody that promised something he'd never truly felt in his life:
Hope.
.
Surprised by the upload? So am I.