Chapter Text
Chapter 37: Desert Shields
The Arizona sun burned high, the sand shimmering like glass. Kalo sat in the shade of the wolf sanctuary’s fence, parchment spread across his knees, quill scratching steadily. His wand lay untouched in the trunk inside the house—useless by law, yet never far from thought.
This summer felt calmer than the last. He no longer scribbled out of desperation, but with measured intent. Each page of notes on runes, arithmancy, and potions was neat, deliberate, as though he had finally learned that endurance, not frenzy, carved wisdom into memory.
Still, restlessness itched beneath his skin. The wolves roamed the enclosures, their movements as familiar as his own heartbeat. But he wanted more than the comfort of what he knew. He wanted to step into the world beyond parchment—to walk it, breathe it, learn it.
At supper, he set down his fork. “Mum, Dad… I’d like to travel.”
Mary blinked, hand pausing over her plate. “Travel? Where to?”
“Not far,” Kalo said carefully. “Across the desert. There are old canyons, hidden caves. I’ve read that native magical creatures live there—thunderbirds, jackalope, horned serpents. I don’t want to hunt them or capture them. I just… want to see. To take notes. To connect what I study at Hogwarts to where I’m from.”
Frank studied him for a long moment, then gave a small nod. “If you go, you go with care. You’ll keep to the canyons and return by sundown. And if you see something you can’t handle, you walk away. Curiosity is fine, son. Foolishness is not.”
That night he prepared his pack—parchment, ink, dried meat, and a flask of water. No wand. He told his parents it was just a break from study, nothing dangerous. When Frank lingered by the trunk afterward, his hand brushing the lid, Kalo thought nothing of it. But the gesture was not mistrust. It was trust.
The canyon was red-gold in the morning light. Kalo crouched on an outcrop, quill in hand, sketching the sweep of wings high above.
At first, he thought it was a storm cloud forming where none should be. Then the sky lit with flickering light—arcs of raw electricity dancing across a vast wingspan.
A Thunderbird.
His breath caught. Sparks trailed in its wake, the air tinged with ozone. For a long, perfect moment, all he did was watch. This, he thought, is what it means to be unbound—to move not by permission or law, but by rhythm and sky. Here was living magic, wild and unchained.
But the harmony shattered.
A roar split the canyon. From the shadows surged something massive—scaled, terrible, its wings blotting the rising sun. A dragon, not native, but here nonetheless, its eyes locked on the Thunderbird with predatory hunger.
Kalo’s parchment slipped from his hands. Lightning clashed with fire, stone cracking under the fury of storm and flame. He tried to retreat, but the dragon’s head snapped downward.
It saw him.
In his scramble, his hand brushed something solid at the bottom of the pack. His heart lurched—the wand. He hadn’t packed it. He knew he hadn’t. Frank must have slipped it in, wordless and unseen. Trust, not suspicion.
He had no time to wonder why. Fire roared, and instinct flung the wand into his grip.
“Protego!”
The shield flared bright, the flames breaking against it. Again the dragon lunged, and again the shield sang to life, holding though his arm shook with the force. He staggered, sweat stinging his eyes, but he stood firm.
Then—silence.
The dragon wheeled back to pursue the Thunderbird, vanishing into the clouds. Kalo collapsed to one knee, smoke curling around him, his shield flickering out.
That was when the wizards appeared.
Cloaked figures, stern-faced, their badges gleaming with the seal of MACUSA.
“You,” one barked. “Name.”
“Kalo Fenwick,” he croaked.
“Underage sorcery. Unauthorized exposure to Class XXXXX beasts.” The wizard’s lip curled. “What were you thinking?”
Kalo had no answer. His chest still heaved, his fingers numb around his wand.
Another wizard snorted. “And look—No-Spark-bred. No wonder. Parents probably too careless to keep their brat in line.”
The word struck like fire in his chest. Kalo paused, fists clenching, before forcing his voice flat, edged like flint.
“My parents gave me strength when they had none for themselves. They worked so I could stand here today. If punishment is due, give it to me. But you will not dishonor them for what they are not.”
The wizards sneered, but their eyes flickered uneasily. They bound him with a reprimand and marched him across the desert like a criminal.
Mary was on the porch when they arrived, basket in hand. Frank stood from the pens, jaw tight. Both froze at the sight of the cloaked figures.
“Your son,” one wizard said coldly, “has been reckless. Underage magic. Tampering with dangerous creatures. Hardly surprising, considering his breeding.”
Mary stiffened, her knuckles whitening on the basket, but her chin lifted, pride flickering through the fear in her eyes. Frank’s fists curled.
Kalo stepped forward before either could speak. His voice rang clear, respectful, but unyielding. “This was my choice, my mistake. Whatever punishment there is belongs to me. Not them. Not ever them.”
The porch was silent, save for the restless pacing of the wolves. One of them stopped beside Kalo, shoulders rigid, as if echoing his stand.
At last, the wizards muttered about “insolent youth,” flicked a parchment into Frank’s hands, and Disapparated into the night.
Mary sank into her chair, pale but dry-eyed. Frank let out a long, steady breath.
“Kalo,” he said softly, “you didn’t need to—”
“Yes, I did.” His voice shook, but he stood tall. “You told me once that a Fenwick stands. Today I stood. For you.”
Mary pulled him into her arms. “And for yourself.”
But Kalo only whispered against her shoulder, “For you.”
Frank’s hand lingered on Kalo’s shoulder that night. “Sometimes,” he murmured, “a father has to trust his son with a tool, even if the world calls it trouble.”
That night, unable to sleep, Kalo wrote until dawn. Not about the Thunderbird or the dragon, but about shields—shields that were more than spells. Shields that were choices. Shields that were voices when silence was easier. Shields that could hold against contempt as surely as they held against flame.
Defense was no longer just a branch of magic. It was the core of who he was becoming.
Before leaving, Kalo worked once more on his satchel of mementos. A stopper from Snape’s trial. A soiled cloth from his time with Hagrid. A page from Of Hope and Horror—the Grey Lady’s guidance. A note of his confession to Professor McGonagall. A scrap of cloth from Neville’s ruined robe—a reminder that imperfection, too, could be carried and turned into strength.
And when the wolves howled across the desert, the sound was not mournful, but steady.
As if they, too, had chosen to stand.