It was about time.
The moment the thought crossed Vinson's mind, every window in the Great Hall swung open at once. A swirling gust of wind followed as hundreds of owls swept inside, wings fluttering loudly as they circled above the students' heads. Letters and packages dangled from their beaks or claws as they searched for their recipients with practiced precision.
The first few days of each school year were always the busiest for the owl post. Countless young witches and wizards inevitably forgot something important at home, then wrote frantic letters as soon as they arrived at Hogwarts. Naturally, parents responded with the same urgency.
A large eagle owl descended onto Vinson's table, landing with surprising grace for a creature its size. It dropped a copy of The Daily Prophet and a sealed envelope addressed to him.
Vinson picked up the newspaper first. The headline, printed in thick, bold letters across the top, declared:
"Savior Harry Potter Has Entered Hogwarts."
"I'm well aware," Vinson muttered under his breath, tossing the paper aside without a second glance. He had no interest in the Prophet's sensationalism.
He turned instead to the letter. As soon as he opened the envelope and saw the signature, his expectations were confirmed—Roskin, the owner of the magical creatures shop in Diagon Alley.
The message was short and direct:
Mr. Adrian Vinson, the magical creatures you requested have been prepared.
Please arrive at the Three Broomsticks in Hogsmeade at one o'clock in the afternoon on the day you receive this letter to collect them. We will send someone to deliver them. If you wish to postpone the collection, please reply at once.
Finally. Vinson nodded, satisfied. He hadn't expected Roskin to gather the creatures so quickly. And to be precise, he had not purchased them outright—they were rentals. He only needed them for his lessons, not for long-term ownership. Even so, renting magical creatures of any rarity cost a considerable number of Galleons. Fortunately, Hogwarts had provided him with a generous budget for teaching.
At exactly one o'clock that afternoon, Vinson arrived at the entrance of the Three Broomsticks. Like every Hogwarts student before him, he knew the place well. He had always enjoyed the butterbeer there, rich and warm, especially during colder months. But he hadn't visited in a long while—not since his years of traveling abroad, and after returning, he'd been too occupied to stop by Hogsmeade.
He pushed open the door. The interior was exactly as he remembered: rowdy voices mingling with the clatter of mugs, a crowded bar counter, and Madam Rosmerta laughing brightly as she entertained several patrons.
"Here! Mr. Vinson!"
He immediately recognized the young voice calling him. Roskin sat in a corner booth by the window, smiling broadly as she waved him over.
Her presence caught Vinson off guard. He had expected an assistant, not the shop owner herself. The last time he had visited her shop, she had been so busy he'd barely managed to speak with her.
Raising an eyebrow, he walked over and took the seat across from her.
"Good afternoon, Madam Roskin," he greeted, studying her expression. "I didn't expect you to deliver the creatures yourself."
Roskin flashed a confident smile, flicking her hair over one shoulder. "You are a very important customer, Mr. Vinson. Naturally, I came personally."
Vinson's attention drifted to the briefcase resting on the table. From experience alone, he could tell it contained an expanded interior—almost certainly a portable habitat.
"You brought the creatures?" he asked in a low voice.
"Of course," Roskin replied, patting the case affectionately. Then she leaned closer, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "And I've brought something that wasn't on your list."
"Not on my list?" Vinson frowned. "I'm fairly certain I have no need for—"
"Don't refuse just yet," Roskin interrupted, resting her chin on her hand as she smirked. "I promise you'll like this one."
Her confidence stirred Vinson's curiosity despite himself. He had no intention of purchasing anything extra, but he wanted to see what exactly she thought would impress him.
"Very well," Roskin said as she finished her butterbeer with a quick gulp. She picked up the briefcase and stood. "But we should move elsewhere. This little darling isn't suited for such a crowded environment."
Vinson glanced at the busy tavern and silently agreed. Whatever she carried, it certainly wasn't ordinary.
"Follow me," she said, weaving toward the back door without waiting.
Vinson followed as they slipped through the throng of customers, then through an old wooden door into a narrow back alley. Like most service alleys, it was empty except for a few scurrying rats.
Roskin walked to the far end of the alley. After checking that no one was around, she set the briefcase on the ground, tapped the lid lightly with her wand, and murmured an incantation.
The case clicked open on its own.
A moment later, a small head emerged. At first glance, it looked somewhat like a bird—silver-white plumage, sharp eyes, a beak less curved than an eagle's.
Vinson recognized the creature instantly.
"A Thunderbird!" he blurted.
"Shh!" Roskin hissed, waving frantically for him to lower his voice. "It's still a baby. Don't startle it."
Vinson quieted himself, though astonishment still colored his tone. "Where did you get this? And more importantly—is this legal?"
Instead of answering, Roskin countered with a sly smile, "Mr. Adrian Vinson, do you remember that paper you published years ago about Thunderbirds?"
"'The Possibility of Artificially Rearing Thunderbirds'?" Vinson recalled.
"That's the one!" Roskin snapped her fingers proudly. "It inspired me immensely. And thanks to your research, I believe I may now be the first witch in the world to successfully breed Thunderbirds."
Vinson stared, genuinely impressed.
When he wrote that paper, he had proposed only a theoretical approach, supported by a few rare observations. Thunderbirds, as he noted, were intensely sensitive to danger. Simply approaching one was a nearly impossible task for the average wizard.
Yet during his travels, Vinson had discovered something extraordinary: within the center of a thunderstorm—while suppressing all traces of hostility—a Thunderbird's emotions stabilized dramatically. In that electrified calm, it would communicate freely. By meeting it repeatedly under those same conditions and showing goodwill, one could even earn its friendship.
But very few wizards could survive standing at the heart of a storm, let alone attempt to befriend such a powerful creature.
Yet Roskin had done it. Somehow.
The realization left Vinson not just surprised, but deeply impressed.
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