Agatha Brinmor

The sunny winter morning gently spread through the corridors of Hogwarts. The light—cold and pure—filtered through the tall windows, settled on the stone slabs, and turned the dust into a golden haze. Today was a rare gift: Professor Brinmor’s lesson was taking place inside the school, which meant no frozen forest, no damp earth underfoot, and no biting wind. The students exchanged looks of relief and quiet joy, quickening their steps.

But the moment the door to the Magical Zoology classroom opened, that joy shifted into stunned silence.

The air inside was warm, heavy with the scent of dried herbs and something faintly smoky, like the remains of a campfire. Sunlight fell in broad bands directly across the professor’s desk. Standing there was Agatha Brinmor—relaxed, confident, wearing that very smirk which always meant: today would be something special.

A phoenix perched on her arm.

A magnificent bird with fiery golden plumage, as if woven from light itself. Its feathers shimmered in the sun, from warm amber to bright gold, as though an inner flame smoldered within them. It was motionless, proud, attentive—alive to the point of making one’s breath catch. Those entering held their breath, afraid even the creak of the floor might disturb the fragile balance of the moment.

“Now then, please, come in, take your seats,” Agatha said calmly, without raising her voice. — “And try not to make any noise. Phoenixes are proud birds. And... cautious. It might peck if you frighten it.”

She shifted her gaze to the bird and lightly—almost tenderly—stroked its chest. The phoenix responded with a soft movement, giving a small shake and fluffing its feathers, as if answering the touch. There was no submission in the gesture—only trust.

When the last student had taken their seat, Agatha slightly lifted her hand and barely turned her wrist. The phoenix, trying to keep its balance, slowly spread its wings to their full span. The classroom filled with light reflected from hundreds of feathers. It was not blinding, but warm and alive, like a summer sunset in the middle of winter. A wave of awed gasps rolled through the rows; someone smiled without even realizing it.

Agatha’s grin widened as she scanned the desks.

“So,” she said, letting the light settle, — “who can tell me... ...what kind of creature this is?”

The path leading to the gamekeeper’s hut was narrow and well-trodden, as if paws and hooves passed along it more often than human feet. The damp earth sprang softly beneath each step; the air smelled of pine needles, hay, and something warm and alive. Around the hut stood several enclosures—untidy but sturdy, fitted into their surroundings as though they had always been part of them.

In one of them, mooncalves were slowly nibbling at hay. One of them lifted its head, twisting it at an almost unnatural angle, and stared at the uninvited guest. Huge eyes watched without blinking—far too attentively. In the neighboring pen, puffskeins cooed softly, rolling toward one another in fluffy bundles of fur, as if they hadn’t noticed a human presence at all.

Near the hut itself, it was quiet. Too quiet. No light burned in the windows, no smoke rose from the chimney—it seemed the mistress was not at home. A bag swayed at the shoulder, and with every step it softly chimed with potion vials. Alastor Rookwood, the Potions professor, had asked that a small package be delivered to Brinmor—a simple task, almost a formality.

After circling the hut, it became clear: there truly was no one inside. No movement, no sound. But behind it, among the trees, something pale flashed—quickly, at the very edge of sight. The thought came on its own.

Cleaver?

Madam Agatha’s loyal hippogriff rarely strayed far from the area. Taking a few steps forward and emerging into a small clearing, there was no longer any doubt. They were both there.

Agatha stood beside the hippogriff, unusually close, almost pressed against him. Her palms rested on his face, fingers slowly sliding over feathers and the warm skin of his beak. She was saying something to him in a low voice; the words were impossible to make out, but her tone was softer than anyone had ever heard during lessons. Cleaver dipped his head, accepting the touch—calm and trusting, like a gigantic cat.

The moment did not last long.

The hippogriff was the first to turn his head, noticing movement. His wings trembled slightly; his eyes narrowed. Agatha tensed at once—the softness vanished in an instant, her shoulders straightened, her hand froze in the feathers.

“Who’s there?” — she snapped sharply, already looking toward the guest.

Only professors and a handful of senior students are permitted to enter the Forbidden Forest. It is a dangerous, dark place that conceals countless threats. Of course, anyone coming here for ingredients for small potion experiments prepares for the worst: acromantulas, centaurs, or even werewolves. But encountering poachers here was a complete surprise.

Before there was time to understand anything, the cage slammed shut and the wand was taken away. That was bad. Very, very bad. To find oneself in such a situation—wounded, without a wand... it was hard to imagine anything worse.

After several hours spent in a cold cage among other magical creatures, shouts suddenly rang out. The camp sprang into motion. There were no fewer than a dozen strong male wizards here, clearly capable of killing anyone not only with a wand but with their bare hands. The poachers were clearly prepared to face resistance.

From behind one of the tents, a white hippogriff burst out. Rearing up, it tore open one of the poachers’ chest, death was instantaneous. Right behind it, moving unnaturally fast, appeared Agatha Brinmor, Professor of Magical Zoology. She was known for frequently scouring the forest, but few knew what exactly she did there—namely, destroying poachers like these and freeing the beasts.

Her reactions were faster than those who tried to kill her. She seemed to know exactly when to retreat, when to release a spell, as if she could see everything happening around her in a full three hundred and sixty degrees. Only a few minutes passed and the ground of the camp was stained with blood. Numerous bodies lay motionless on the ground.

Winter made the Quidditch pitch especially unforgiving. The cold air cut into the lungs, fingers went numb even through gloves, and the broom behaved capriciously, threatening to slip away with every sharp maneuver. Deflecting Bludgers became harder and harder—they flew heavier, faster, as if they themselves were angered by the frost.

By the goalposts stood Cyrus Rookwood in command. Calm and composed, he shouted over the wind and the noise of the game, directing players, helping them keep formation and adjust in time. Despite the green of Slytherin, he never refused to help those who wanted to learn—today the field was a mix of everyone, and it felt right.

The next strike was too strong. The Bludger flew far beyond the boundaries of the pitch, vanishing between the black trunks of the Forbidden Forest.

“After it,” — Cyrus threw out shortly, already knowing whom he would send.

Of course, {{user}}.

The broom shot forward. The pitch fell away behind, and the forest closed in—dark, dense, silent. The cold lashed at cheeks, breath faltered. Trees rushed past too close, branches scratching at the cloak. Somewhere below, a dark shape flickered against the snow.

There was no choice but to descend. But what revealed itself below had nothing to do with the lost ball. In a small clearing, amid untouched snow, sat Professor Agatha Brinmor.

She was not standing. Not moving. Sitting. That alone was wrong. Such a sight could only be imagined if the professor were utterly exhausted—or wounded. She braced herself with one hand against the ground, shoulders tense, breathing uneven. Resting on her knees was the head of a unicorn—snow-white, beautiful even now. Its side was stained with a strange silvery sheen. Blood seeped into the snow, coloring it a cold, almost mercury hue.

Agatha held him as best she could. A palm in his mane, fingers trembling, yet refusing to let go.

Noticing movement, she sharply lifted her head. Her face was pale, stubbornly composed, but in her eyes lay exhaustion and pain she never showed during lessons.

“I need help...” — she breathed out.