Injured Bird

A new week began, and Hogwarts seemed to winterize overnight.

The chill in the air grew sharper, and soon heavy snow followed. The surrounding peaks, once shadowy and gray, were now blanketed in a desolate white. Yet when sunlight bathed the snow-capped mountains, their bleakness seemed to vanish, replaced by a warmth that felt as comforting as a mug of hot cocoa.

The Black Lake, now sealed beneath a thick sheet of ice, mirrored the sky like a pane of tempered glass. Its frozen surface was so clear that glimpses of the lake's mysterious underwater world shimmered faintly beneath it.

Despite the change in weather, the castle's whispers remained fixated on a different topic — the troll incident. Ever since word spread that Professor McGonagall had sent Vizet to the hospital wing, the rumors had only grown louder.

To most students, the idea that a first-year had confronted a troll seemed improbable. Naturally, the story spiraled. Some claimed Vizet had single-handedly bested the beast, while others believed Professor McGonagall had exaggerated the event to protect him.

Had it been Harry Potter at the heart of the tale, few would have questioned it. After all, the Boy Who Lived was already hailed as the "Savior," a child who had famously defeated Voldemort at the age of one. For Harry to triumph over a troll? That seemed far more believable.

In the aftermath of the rumors, Vizet found himself trailed by curious students — particularly in the library. They didn't ask questions or attempt conversation. They simply watched, their unblinking stares enough to make Vizet's skin crawl.

Whenever their silent observation became unbearable, Vizet had no choice but to leave.

The Ravenclaw common room seemed like an obvious retreat, but unfortunately, most of his housemates had the same idea. More often than not, the common room was crowded, leaving him no quiet space to concentrate.

His dormitory offered some respite, but practicing magic there risked drawing unwanted attention. With spellwork that bordered on the unusual, Vizet preferred not to attract curious eyes.

Fred and George's hidden base — a cramped yet cozy spot — had its charm, but the twins' ongoing experiments with prank devices often ended in chaotic mishaps, making it far from ideal for serious study.

After much consideration, Vizet finally found the perfect solution — Hagrid's hut.

The gamekeeper's cabin, warmed by a crackling fire, was a sanctuary of comfort. The scent of burning firewood filled the room, and once Fang, Hagrid's oversized boarhound, had grown familiar with Vizet, the dog would often flop down by the hearth, belly up, waiting for a good scratch.

In that peaceful corner of Hogwarts grounds, Vizet found the quiet he desperately needed.

------------------------------

Although Hagrid's towering figure and shaggy beard gave him the appearance of a wild mountain man, Vizet had long since realized that the gamekeeper had a surprisingly delicate side.

Hagrid had a fondness for crafting — a pastime that seemed oddly mismatched with his large hands and immense strength.

He would often sit alone in his oversized chair, a small carving knife clutched awkwardly in his fingers as he whittled away at blocks of wood. His most common creation was wooden flutes — simple yet surprisingly well-crafted.

To Vizet, the sight of a half-giant painstakingly shaping such delicate instruments seemed as improbable as watching a dragon balance teacups. It demanded patience, control, and precision — all things Hagrid quietly excelled at.

"It'll blow over in a few days," Hagrid said, his focus still on the wooden flute he was carving. "They won't be followin' you 'round much longer, not with Quidditch season startin'!"

His knife scraped softly against the wood as he spoke, sending thin curls of shavings fluttering to the floor.

"I heard from Harry you're playin' Chaser for Ravenclaw — that's brilliant! Once the matches begin, they'll be too busy talkin' about the games to bother you."

Vizet smiled faintly. "I hope so... The whole troll business feels like it's dragged on long enough."

Andre had already mentioned the Quidditch schedule — Gryffindor's match against Slytherin was set for mid-November, and Ravenclaw would play Hufflepuff just before the Christmas break.

"Bet you'll show 'em a thing or two!" Hagrid grinned, giving Vizet an encouraging look. "You lot have some strong flyers this year — I reckon you've got a fair shot at the Cup!"

He set down his carving knife and clapped his hands together. "Now then, how 'bout some tea? Got some cake in the oven too — fresh and hot!"

Vizet chuckled softly and shook his head. "Just the tea, thanks. Otherwise, I'll spoil my lunch."

Hagrid's baking was... memorable. His rock cakes, for instance, could rival actual stones in density. Vizet half-suspected that if Hagrid accidentally dropped one, it might crack the floor.

Just as Hagrid stood to fetch the kettle, a sharp pop sounded from near the fireplace.

Both turned in surprise as a plump, rooster-sized bird appeared beside the hearth. Its fluffy feathers were a riot of vibrant colors — blue and red, with a tinge of gold — but those bright hues were marred by an ugly wound near its wing. Blood seeped from the gash, tinged with an unsettling greenish sheen.

This was a magical animal similar to the Dodo.

Or it would be more appropriate to say that this was the Dodo.

Despite being recorded as extinct in Muggle history, Dodos — known as Diricawls in the wizarding world — remained very much alive in magical society. Tired of muggle interference, they had long since retreated into wizarding territory.

"Barry! What happened to you?" Hagrid cried, abandoning the kettle in his rush to reach the injured bird.

The forgotten water sloshed into the fireplace, sending a hissing cloud of steam into the air.

Hagrid scooped the bird into his arms with surprising gentleness, cradling it as carefully as a mother would hold a newborn. He carried the creature to the table and laid it down on a folded cloth.

The injured bird let out a faint, croaking noise, shuffling weakly as Hagrid examined its injury.

As magical creatures, diricawls had a remarkable ability — they could vanish and reappear at will, similar to Apparition. Unlike wizarding Apparition, however, dodos could bypass standard Anti-Apparition wards and relocate with hardly a whisper of sound.

"Injured... and poisoned..." Hagrid muttered grimly. "Looks like you'll be stayin' here for a while, Barry."

He reached for a roll of unicorn hair bandages hanging from a nearby hook, clearly intending to dress the wound.

"Wait," Vizet said suddenly, stepping forward. "Hagrid, can I try something first? If healing magic works, we might not need the bandage."

Hagrid's eyes widened. "You've already learned healing spells?"

"Just a little," Vizet said modestly.

Hagrid's expression softened into one of cautious hope. "Well... if you're willin' to try, let's see what you can do!"

He knelt beside the table, steadying the injured bird with one hand. "Gently now... poor thing's had a rough go of it."