The Thunderbird was a massive, awe-inspiring bird, with three pairs of wings. The largest pair had an incredible span, and when it flew, it was as majestic as a great eagle. All three pairs would beat in rhythm, sending shimmering light glancing off its snow-white feathers.
Its emotions could influence the weather, and its presence alone struck fear into the hearts of those with evil intent.
To many wizards, the Thunderbird was a living emblem of justice.
Some even claimed it was a distant relative of the Phoenix—though whether that was fact or myth was anyone's guess.
Either way, the moment Tom laid eyes on it, he felt this bird fit perfectly with his own refined taste. That pure white body… it looked like justice itself—just like him.
But take one home as a pet?
Tom had no such thought. Thunderbirds belonged in the wild. Keeping one in Britain—tiny as it was—would be nothing but cruelty.
He leaned forward, ready to accelerate toward it, but Newt quickly held him back.
"Tom, don't get carried away. Now's not the time to approach a Thunderbird. We need permission first~."
"Permission? From who? Are there Aurors here?" Tom asked in puzzlement.
"No. Come with me and you'll see."
Newt tilted his broom and turned forty-five degrees away from where the Thunderbird was soaring. Tom could only follow.
They hadn't flown far when a cluster of thatched huts appeared on a plain, like a small village. As they drew closer, the people there spotted them and began shouting, pointing at the sky.
Each held a spear, wore feathered headdresses, and had painted their bodies in strange patterns.
"Indigenous people?" Tom raised a brow, recognizing them instantly.
When Columbus "discovered" the New World, he'd mistaken it for India, lumping all the peoples here under the name "Indians"—a label dripping with prejudice. But long before Columbus, wizards had already known of the Americas, keeping contact with the magical folk here.
So wizards didn't misuse the term. It wasn't until immigration surged that "Native" became the proper, settled term.
"Don't say a word later—let me handle it. They're good people, just… cautious," Newt said, motioning for Tom to follow him down and giving him a warning.
Newt had met many powerful wizards in his time—the most unforgettable being Grindelwald and Dumbledore. People liked to say the two were polar opposites, fire and water.
But Newt could see a lot of similarities between them… some of which he was already seeing in Tom.
All three were, deep down, fiercely proud. Dumbledore hid it best. Tom… would never tolerate an insult.
Which was why Newt had to stress that these people meant no harm—just to avoid a fight.
Tom would, of course, give Newt that face. He mimed zipping his mouth shut.
The village was ringed by a tall wooden fence, with four watchtowers at its corners. Tom and Newt landed outside, where muscular warriors raised their spears, ready to throw at the slightest provocation.
Tom left it all to Newt and didn't bother about their hostility—he was too busy admiring the female warriors' physiques.
Their faces weren't much to speak of, but their figures were striking—curved in all the right places, with oiled bronze skin and clearly defined muscles.
Seeing Tom relaxed, Newt eased a little. He began speaking in a strange, bubbling language. Soon, several elders emerged from the village, leaning on canes.
They clearly recognized Newt, for they barked orders at the warriors, who quickly lowered their spears and bows. Their gazes toward Newt shifted to respect.
Newt embraced one of the elders and began talking. A short while later, all the elders turned their eyes to Tom, then looked back at Newt, and nodded slightly.
Moments later, a woman brought two flower garlands and handed them to Newt. After exchanging a few more words with the elder, Newt returned to Tom.
"All good?" Tom asked.
"Mm. Put this on."
Newt slipped on his garland and passed the other to Tom, who obediently wore it. They mounted their brooms again and took off, the villagers returning to their huts.
Tom could guess the gist of what had been said, but still wanted to hear it straight.
Newt didn't hide anything, telling the whole story.
Inside the Sanctuary, aside from magical beasts, there were three tribes of natives, all of whom revered the Thunderbird as a totem. When Newt had returned the Thunderbird named Frank years ago, they had mistaken him for a poacher. A fight had almost broken out.
Fortunately, Newt had a good temper. Even when captured, he patiently explained several times. And when Frank showed clear affection toward him, the tribe finally realized it was all a misunderstanding.
Later, during the Sanctuary's establishment, it was Newt who mediated and stopped the Magical Congress from relocating the tribes. He even arranged for them to be officially employed as Thunderbird guardians, with yearly supplies from the Congress.
These tribes weren't just warriors—they had shamans, which in wizarding terms meant actual spellcasters. Their combat ability was nothing to scoff at, and they often caught poachers aiming for the Thunderbirds.
Poachers, once caught, were never handed over to the Congress. They were taken back to the tribe… as sacrifices.
What Newt had just done was get the tribe's permission for them to approach the Thunderbirds. Normally, Newt wouldn't need such formalities—but this time he had Tom along, so he went by the book.
The garlands on their heads were essentially passes. Any tribal warriors guarding the Thunderbird territory would let them through.
Which meant Tom had been absolutely right to go with Newt first. Otherwise, things might have gone… very differently—more along the lines of Tom Riddle slaughters his way through the North American wizarding world.
After hearing this, Tom was speechless. "Even the natives are into politics now. Can't anyone just be simple anymore?"
"Oh, quit complaining," Newt chuckled. "These garlands will help you too—the Thunderbirds will be friendlier when they see you."
That made Tom grin. "Connections, eh? If you've got them—use them."