Chapter Text
The spring of 1965 in Great Britain would be remembered as one of the rainiest on record. Weeks of grey skies and swollen rivers had soaked the land until even the earth seemed weary of holding more water. Thankfully, summer was beginning to assert itself, and the sun started to appear more often, hesitant at first, then lingering.
The countryside resumed its ordinary rhythms: fields tended, hedges trimmed, children sent outdoors from morning until supper. There was a fragile but sincere sense that the world might be allowed to remain simple, at least for a while.
In villages like Elmswell, time moved slowly. Afternoons stretched long and golden. Laundry dried on lines strung between apple trees. Radios murmured from open windows, carrying fragments of music and voices that blended into the hum of insects. Children ran barefoot through grass still warm from the sun, their laughter carrying easily across the fields.
Albus Dumbledore appeared in the middle of a cornfield with the soft rush of displaced air and the quiet crunch of soil beneath his boots. The sun was lowering toward the horizon, and long shadows stretched between the stalks as the light thinned and cooled. Gold faded into deeper hues. For a moment, he did not move. He stood with one hand resting on his cane, listening.
The countryside was peaceful. Too peaceful.
Beyond the field lay a small village, with stone cottages, narrow lanes, smoke curling lazily from chimneys. Somewhere, a dog barked. Somewhere else, a child laughed.
Dumbledore exhaled slowly and began walking toward the lane that led to the Prewetts' home.
The house stood at the edge of the village, half-shaded by an old apple tree. It was a lovely cottage, well kept and welcoming, with the unmistakable air of a place long and happily lived in.
Toys lay scattered across the grass. A wooden sword, cracked down the middle. A ball caught in the branches.
Small footprints marked the earth beneath the tree.
The Prewetts were not a family people spoke about. Not yet, at least. They lived quietly, worked steadily, and asked for very little.
Thomas Prewett worked as a clerk for the Wizengamot, a position that demanded accuracy, restraint, and absolute discretion. He wasn't there to pass judgement, only to ensure that the law was followed to the letter.
He met his wife, Agnes, in 1944. His final year at Hogwarts, her first. They had never really spoken. By the time he left school, she was little more than a passing impression, already fading into memory.
Nearly a decade later, he met her again in Ireland, while travelling to Donegal to visit part of his family. What was meant to be a brief stay stretched into something longer. Days folded into weeks, and somewhere between shared meals and conversations that lingered long after they should have ended, recognition set in, not of who they had been, but of who they had become.
They married in November. A month later, Agnes was expecting.
Even after the children came, and they came quickly, Agnes refused to step away from her work. She remained Co-Director of the Improper Use of Magic Office, balancing long days, endless correspondence, and the weight of responsibility with a composure that never quite wavered.
She had a calm presence, a way of listening that made people trust her without quite knowing why.
And, inevitably, they had come to know Dumbledore through their work.
At first, it had been no more than professional acquaintance, the kind that grew out of shared meetings and exchanged letters. But over time, something quieter had formed.
After Priscilla left, after her sudden absence, Dumbledore had begun to linger. He stayed for tea when he had once declined. Asked after the children. Returned when there was no clear reason to.
Priscilla had been dear to him. A friend, a constant, someone whose presence had never needed explanation. Her absence had left a space that did not easily close.
Somehow, without ever being discussed, the Prewetts had become part of that space.
They never questioned it.
And there were very few people they trusted with their children.
Albus Dumbledore was one of them.
And so, when something about Morgana began to feel wrong, not frightening but definitely unsettling, Thomas and Agnes had not hesitated.
And even though Dumbledore cared deeply for all of them, he had an obvious soft spot for their youngest. That little girl, with red hair and hazel, shining eyes, was his goddaughter, after all.
Agnes opened the door before he could knock. Her sleeves were dusted with flour, her hair pinned back hastily. Relief crossed her face when she saw him.
'Albus,' she said softly. 'You came.'
'Of course,' he replied.
She stepped aside. 'Thomas is inside. The boys are...'
A crash interrupted her.
'Jack!' a voice called from the back of the house. 'Give it back!'
'It's mine!' came another protest.
A third voice laughed, loud and unbothered.
Agnes closed her eyes briefly. 'They've been all over the place. I will never understand where they find all this energy.'
Dumbledore allowed himself the faintest smile and stepped inside. The house was alive with noise.
John, but everyone called him Jack, stood near the hearth with his arms folded, attempting responsibility with little success. Timothy sat on the floor, trying to reassemble something that had clearly been broken on purpose. Peter darted back and forth with reckless enthusiasm, a wooden spoon clutched like a sword.
'Dad said not to run!' Timothy shouted.
'I'm not running,' Peter replied. 'I'm charging.'
Thomas stood nearby, hands braced against the mantel, looking more tired than any man his age should. He looked up as Dumbledore entered.
'You felt it,' Thomas said.
'I felt something,' Dumbledore replied.
That was enough.
His gaze drifted to a broken wooden contraption near the hearth, what was once a model broom, now snapped cleanly in two.
'This looks familiar,' Dumbledore said mildly.
Thomas sighed. 'That would be Jack. Or Peter. Or possibly Timothy. Hard to say.'
Dumbledore's mouth twitched. 'Ah. I imagine it met the same fate as the fence.'
'And the shed,' Thomas added. 'And the ladder.'
'A productive summer,' Dumbledore observed.
Thomas shook his head, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
'My brother's children were here last week. Molly is as sweet as ever, but Gideon and Fabian...'
He exhaled, half amused, half exasperated. 'Sixteen and eighteen, and already convinced they know better than everyone else in the room.'
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. 'Auror material, some might say.'
'Perhaps,' Thomas replied. 'They mean well. Always do. But between their ideas and our three...'
He gestured toward the distant noise.
'Things tend to escalate.'
'Yes,' Dumbledore said. 'Families have a way of doing that.'
A burst of laughter rang out from the next room, light and musical, rising above the rest.
Morgana.
'She's been in a particularly good mood today,' Agnes said, almost fondly. 'Too good, perhaps.'
Dumbledore glanced at her.
'As we mentioned in our letter,' she continued, lowering her voice, 'this isn't the first time something like this has happened.'
She hesitated, then went on.
'The cat caught a mouse in the garden earlier. Morgana was terribly upset. She wouldn't let anyone take it away.'
A pause.
'When I came back... it was moving again.'
Dumbledore absorbed this in silence, his expression thoughtful rather than alarmed.
'And these...incidents?' he asked gently.
Agnes nodded. 'They're becoming more frequent. It began as usual, small things, mostly. You know we would not write to you if it wasn't something...uncommon.'
Dumbledore inclined his head.
'It's important we don't try to stop her,' he said calmly. 'It is never wise to restrain a child's magic. Suppression only teaches fear, and fear has a way of turning inward.'
His voice softened.
'But I know I don't need to tell you that.'
Thomas shifted uncomfortably. 'God,' he muttered. 'Ariana...'
Dumbledore said nothing. For a moment his gaze moved somewhere else entirely, not to the room, not to Thomas, but to some middle distance that had nothing to do with either. Then it passed. He inclined his head slightly, as though the name had been a question he had already answered too many times to speak aloud.
Morgana sat on the rug near the hearth, her small legs folded beneath her. Her hands rested loosely in her lap, palms turned upward, as though waiting for something to settle there.
Her brothers lingered around her. Jack stood back with his arms crossed. Timothy crouched close by.
Peter lay flat on his stomach, chin in his hands.
'What are you doing?' Peter asked.
Morgana didn't open her eyes. 'Trying to see him again.'
Jack frowned. 'Who?'
She breathed in slowly. 'Fawkes.'
Dumbledore stilled.
'My phoenix?' he asked gently.
She nodded, as if the answer were obvious. 'When I think about something happy,' she said quietly, 'he comes closer.'
The room seemed to shift.
Not suddenly. Not violently.
Just a change in the air. A warmth spreading outward, like the hush before a flame catches.
The fire in the hearth fluttered.
Morgana lifted her hands slightly. A shimmer formed behind her, pale and soft, light folding in on itself.
Not solid. Not quite real. Only the suggestion of wings.
A phoenix.
Not summoned. Not commanded. Only remembered.
It lingered for a heartbeat. Then it faded.
Peter let out a breath he hadn't realised he was holding. 'That was brilliant.'
Jack had gone pale.
Timothy said nothing.
Dumbledore stood very still. The fire had settled. The room was very quiet. He looked at the child for a moment, at her small hands already reaching for the next block, at the complete indifference with which she had returned to the ordinary world. As though nothing had happened. As though it cost her nothing at all.
'Well,' he said at last, smoothing the cuff of his sleeve, 'that is rather early.'
Thomas turned sharply. 'That was a Patronus.'
'A suggestion of one,' Dumbledore replied calmly. 'Children possess a remarkably vivid imagination.'
'Albus, you know I hold you in high regard, but I am not a fool.' Thomas's voice was steady, but strained.
'The child says Fawkes appears when she is happy. That suggests this is not the first time. It is intentional. Children's magic is never intentional.'
He stopped, breath tight. 'You must admit it is unusual.'
Agnes placed a hand on his arm. 'Albus is trying to help.'
'I know,' Thomas said quietly. 'I'm sorry. It's just...' He shook his head. 'It's a lot.'
Dumbledore raised a hand gently. 'Magic behaves strangely around those who feel safe,' he said. 'Especially loved ones.'
Morgana had already gone back to stacking her blocks, the conversation no longer holding her attention.
'She's happy,' he added. 'And she's healthy. That is what matters.'
A pause.
Jack glanced at Timothy. Timothy glanced at Peter. No one spoke.
Dumbledore watched Morgana a moment longer than necessary. Then he turned away.
And if his hand lingered on the back of a chair, if his eyes darkened briefly before he composed himself, no one noticed.
That night, the house did not settle easily.
Morgana lay awake, staring at the shadows drifting across the ceiling. A thin line of gold slipped beneath the door.
In the stillness, her parents' voices carried through the wall. Low, careful. Not arguing, but not laughing either. She knew the difference.
'She's only six,' her mother said.
'I know,' her father replied. 'She's different. That's what frightens me.'
The words pressed against her chest.
She heard the sound of footsteps in the corridor, slow and steady, moving toward the stairs. Then they stopped. A long moment passed. The door opened softly.
She pretended to sleep.
The bed dipped.
A hand brushed her hair.
Dumbledore sat beside her. 'Morgana,' he murmured. 'I know you're awake.'
Her eyes opened. 'I heard them,' she whispered.
'I thought you might.'
She sat up slightly. The words she'd heard through the wall were still pressing against her chest, but she couldn't quite find the shape of them. She looked at his hands instead, large and still against the blanket, and said nothing.
After a moment she whispered, 'I didn't mean to. I was just happy.'
'I know,' he said.
She thought for a moment. 'Uncle Albus,' she hesitated. 'My name...mum said it comes from a bad witch.'
'Not bad,' he corrected gently. 'Misunderstood. That's what I like to think.'
'Then why was I named after her?'
'Because she was powerful,' he said. 'And because what matters is not who or what you are. It's who and what you choose to be.'
She nodded slowly, then yawned.
After a moment, he asked softly, 'What were you thinking about when you made Fawkes appear?'
'Mum said you're staying with us for a few days. And that made me happy.'
He stilled. For a moment, he couldn't speak. Then quietly, he said, 'I'm glad.'