The Burrow wasn't just a house.
It was a living, breathing thing held together by magic, mismatched furniture, and enough warmth to roast a dragon.
The roof slanted like it was unsure whether it wanted to collapse or take off. Chimneys puffed like overworked kettles. A garden gnome flipped me off as I stepped over it. It was perfect.
Ron ran ahead, yelling something about needing to hide his Chudley Cannons poster before I judged him.
I raised an eyebrow.
We weren't exactly best mates yet. He was younger than me by a year, still had that boyish awkwardness, and a tendency to blurt out whatever was on his mind... but there was something about the Weasleys that made you feel like you'd stumbled into a story already mid-chaos.
"Rowan, dear!" came a voice from inside. "Come in, come in! Honestly, Ronald, wipe your shoes!"
Mrs. Weasley bustled forward, apron dusted with flour, hands strong and warm. "You must be starving. You're skin and bones. Sit down, eat. The table's got a mind of its own, just give it a kick if it argues."
I hadn't even spoken yet, but food was already in front of me.
Fred and George zipped past behind her, one of them muttering, "Do not tell Mum the biscuits are cursed," while the other added, "We told you testing them on Percy would backfire!"
"I HEARD THAT!" came a voice from upstairs.
I blinked.
Ron grinned at me. "Welcome to the madhouse."
---
Nyx made her entrance halfway through dinner.
Not through the door. No, of course not.
She soared in through an open window, cutting through the air like a shadow dipped in ink, her wings glinting under the low golden lights. Her claws landed soundlessly on the back of my chair.
Mrs. Weasley nearly dropped her spoon.
"That's... not an owl," she said, cautiously.
"She's a raven," I explained.
Fred leaned forward. "Is it legal to post with ravens?"
"She doesn't deliver mail."
George's eyes widened. "Does she steal it?"
"She's not like that either."
"She's got taste," Ginny said, smirking as Nyx pecked at a biscuit and turned her beak up at it. "That one's one of George's disasters."
"She came to me," I added quietly, noticing how the room stilled for just a second. "I didn't buy her. She just... found me."
Arthur Weasley looked up from his stew, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. "Interesting. That kind of bond isn't common."
Fred muttered, "Neither is bringing a raven into Mum's kitchen and living to tell the tale."
"Fred Weasley!"
---
Ron's room was a floor above mine, smaller than I expected, with Quidditch posters clinging to the walls like they'd been magicked to ignore gravity.
"You don't mind sleeping a floor down, right?" he asked, kicking his shoes off. "We're a bit packed this summer."
"I like it," I said honestly.
"Didn't think someone like you'd like this kind of place."
"Someone like me?"
"You're... quiet," Ron said, scratching his neck. "Not in a bad way. Just... different. You don't talk like the other first-years."
I gave him a small smile. "Maybe I've seen more."
That shut him up.
---
That night, while the house creaked and sighed like it was settling into dreams, Nyx rested on the windowsill of my borrowed room. Her feathers shimmered in the moonlight—silver-edged obsidian—and her eyes glowed faintly as if catching stars.
I couldn't sleep.
Not because of the noise—though Fred's snoring was unnatural—but because something in the air felt... off.
Not dangerous.
Just awake.
Nyx tilted her head at me, as if she felt it too.
Then, with no warning, she took off—straight through the window and into the night.
"Nyx—wait!"
I leaned out, heart thumping. The air was cool. The world quiet.
And then, out of the trees behind the Burrow, she came gliding back—but she wasn't alone.
In her claws, she carried a scroll sealed in wax that shimmered gold under the moonlight.
She dropped it into my hands, then landed on my shoulder like a queen returning to her throne.
The seal was... ancient. Not from the Ministry. Not Hogwarts.
I turned it over.
And froze.
There was no name on it. No sender.
But the wax bore the unmistakable imprint of a phoenix feather, coiled around a wand.
And just beneath it... was my name.
Not written.
Etched.