FAWKES THE PHOENIX
someone wildly exaggerates a story about themselves

Snow had a way of making the world honest.

It stripped away pretense with the same efficiency it stripped leaves from branches, leaving only what was sturdy enough (or foolish enough) to remain standing. No matter what, this weather insisted on reducing everything to white, cold, and true.

He supposed it served him right.

Snow did not care that he was clever. It did not pause in admiration of past brilliance, nor did it whisper reassurances that, surely, in spite of the outcome you meant well. Certainly nothing of the sort as it, the snow, settled into the seams of his boots.

Albus Dumbledore stood at the edge of the pinewood, breath fogging the air, toes somewhat numb within wooly socks nestled within thick leather, heart barely a shadow of its former self. A past burned nearly to ash, he had walked until grief grew tired of chasing him—or perhaps it was he who grew tired of running.

Somewhere above, a bird cried... and he followed it.

The bird, a phoenix, perched upon a frost-laced branch with feathers the color of embers banked low. Albus leaned his head back to take in its majesty, sunlight glistening off the edges of its feathers as they regarded him with patient dark eyes... almost as if it had been expecting him...

...or had always known he would arrive precisely when he did.

"Well," Albus smiled, tipping his hat, "this is just a twinge awkward. I don't suppose you speak English?"

The bird tilted its head.

"Marvelous," Albus sighed. "I'll take that as encouragement."

He sat in the snow with his back against a tree, the cold slightly seeping through his tattered coat. Silence of the wintry wood pressed in, the sort that reminded a man of all the voices no longer there now made sharper by the soft creak of branches shifting under their burden of snow and the phoenix's careful gaze. His mother's careful hum. Ariana's laugh. Aberforth’s anger, familiar, alive, and all sharp edges of wounded love. Gellert voice...full of futures that had once seemed so close they could be touched. All gone or far away, and the silence left behind had learned how to hurt intentionally.

The phoenix hopped closer.

"I should warn you," Albus said solemnly, "you are in the presence of a very dangerous wizard."

The phoenix blinked and hopped a little more.

"Yes, yes, I know," he went on. "Hard to tell from the bedraggled hair and tragic posture, but once upon a time I was a terror. Vanquisher of villains. Champion of causes. I once defeated a Hungarian Horntail armed only with a teaspoon, an earwax flavored Bertie Bott, and an especially cutting remark."

The phoenix emitted a soft trill that might have been amusement.

"Ah," Albus nodded. "You have heard of me."

He clasped his gloved hands together. "I am famed for my brilliance. My restraint. My impeccable judgment." He paused. "Particularly that last one. Truly, my choices have been so flawless that they have only ever resulted in minor inconveniences. The destruction of my family and the permanent rearrangement of my soul, for example."

The phoenix's eyes softened. It stepped closer still, feathers glowing faintly against the snow.

"Don't misunderstand," Albus added lightly. "I wasn't always this impressive. There was a time I believed I could fix the world if only I were clever enough, bold enough, important enough. Turns out... that was horrifically naive of me."

He looked away, blinking hard and wiped his nose with his sleeve.

"So now," he concluded, forcing a smile, "I roam forests at Christmastime, regaling legendary birds with tales of my glory. A clear improvement, wouldn't you agree."

The phoenix spread its wings, heat rolled gently through the space between them and melting the frost where Albus sat.

"Well," he murmured in surprise, "that was… quite kind of you." The bird hopped onto Albus' knee. "I'm Albus," he said quietly, all the exaggeration gone. "I don't have much to offer at the moment. You see, I'm very good at making mistakes and rather excellent at being alone."

The phoenix pressed its head beneath his chin and with the gesture, a small fierce heartbeat of warmth.

Albus laughed then, a sound he hadn't made in... Merlin's socks he wasn't sure how long it had been now. "Oh, I see. You're one of those creatures who refuses to be impressed by nonsense and insists on liking the truth. Well," Albus said softly, "in that case… would you care to stay?"

The forest seemed to hold its breath. Then the phoenix sang, a note renewal curling through the cold air, and Albus felt—just for a moment—that life, his choices, had not taken everything after all.

Later he would name the bird Fawkes.

Later there would be towers and troubles and a lifetime of careful watching.

But that night, alone in the winter wood, a lonely man and a fire-born creature kept each other warm. A miracle of Christmas that was neither loud or grand. It was simply this: two lonely beings choosing together to begin again.