The days after Oliver's song in the forest passed slowly, each one blending into the next until he couldn't tell where one ended and another began. He woke each morning with the low murmur of the Slytherin dormitory in his ears, the greenish glow of the Black Lake seeping through the windows, and the same heavy feeling sitting square in his chest.
By now, Malfoy had made a sport out of his presence. The nickname "Minstrel" had spread through their House like wildfire. Whenever Oliver walked into the common room, he could feel the whispers rise around him, some muffled laughter that died quickly when he turned his head. Crabbe and Goyle were relentless, strumming at invisible guitars whenever he passed, making high-pitched humming noises as if mocking his quiet practice.
He tried to ignore it. Tried to bury himself in assignments, in the rhythm of wand motions, in the quiet of the corridors at night. But no matter how hard he worked, the laughter followed. It was quieter when professors were near, but even that offered no safety—Snape's barbed comments had a way of turning the entire class against him without needing to say anything outright.
Only Daphne Greengrass kept a distance from the mockery, though she didn't exactly stand beside him either. In class she was polite, her remarks clipped and efficient, her quill scratching steadily beside his. But in the common room, in the corridors, she never met his eyes. Whatever relief he'd felt at her early words—different doesn't mean lesser—had dulled with every silence that followed.
The rest of the school wasn't kinder. Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws whispered about the Slytherin boy who carried a guitar like it was a second wand. Some sneered. Others simply looked away. And Harry—Harry, who had once sat with him on the train, who had smiled at him like a friend—now only managed small nods in passing. Ron's glare was always there, tugging Harry toward the Gryffindor table, away from Oliver as though his presence might infect.
Oliver had stopped trying to wave back.
He clung to the nights when the corridors were empty, when he could slip out with his guitar and let the notes echo off the stone. Mrs. Norris always found him, a silent shadow who purred at the softest chords and then guided him safely back to the dorms. Her company was wordless, but it was company all the same.
Still, the ache of being unwanted pressed heavy on his shoulders, and even the music began to feel less like freedom and more like hiding.
One morning, as he pulled his books from his bag before Potions, he found a folded scrap of parchment tucked between them. His heart gave a sudden lurch—he half expected it to be some cruel joke, another trick from Malfoy or his friends. But the handwriting was large and clumsy, the letters uneven, sprawling across the page like someone unused to delicate work.
Come by for tea sometime. – Hagrid
That was all it said. No explanation, no instructions, just an invitation.
Oliver stared at the words until Snape's voice snapped him back to the present, cold and sharp as glass. "Mr. Night, if you're quite finished daydreaming, perhaps you'd like to turn your attention to the cauldron in front of you before it boils over."
Laughter rippled behind him. Oliver shoved the note back into his pocket, cheeks burning, and forced himself to focus on the fumes rising from the cauldron. But the words wouldn't leave his mind. Come by for tea.
That evening, when the rest of Slytherin drifted into their usual groups and Oliver sat alone with his parchment, the note seemed to hum in his pocket. By the time the fire burned low in the common room, he had made up his mind.
He slipped out through the dungeons, careful to keep his footsteps light. The castle at dusk was quieter than at midnight, but it still carried a sense of being watched. Oliver kept to the edges of torchlight, pausing whenever portraits stirred or staircases groaned into new positions.
At last, he reached the main doors. They were massive, iron-bound, groaning softly when he pushed them open just enough to slip through. The evening air hit his face—cool, damp, fresh in a way that no dungeon corridor could ever be.
The grounds stretched out before him, rolling gently down to the dark bulk of the forest. A scattering of lanterns lit the path, each halo of light carving a little safety from the shadows. At the far edge, a squat wooden hut sat half-leaning against the line of trees, smoke curling from its chimney.
Oliver's heart beat faster with every step down the path. The hut looked warm from a distance, but the idea of knocking on its door still made his stomach twist. What if it wasn't real? What if it was pity? What if Hagrid didn't really mean it?
But when he reached the door and raised a hesitant hand, it swung open before he could knock. A massive dog barreled out, barking loudly, nearly knocking Oliver flat.
"Fang! Back!" Hagrid's booming voice filled the air, but it wasn't sharp—it was laughing. The giant man appeared behind the dog, lantern light spilling around his bulk. "Sorry 'bout that. He don't mean no harm. Come in, Oliver."
Oliver steadied himself, rubbing Fang's slobbery head as the dog panted happily. "It's alright," he managed. His voice sounded smaller than usual.
Inside, the hut was a single room, warm and cluttered in a way that felt alive. Tools hung from the walls—crossbows, ropes, pots large enough to bathe in. A kettle steamed on the hearth, and the smell of earth and firewood filled the air. The table was heavy and scarred, set with mismatched mugs.
"Sit down, sit down," Hagrid said, bustling to the fire. He poured tea into two mugs, sliding one across the table to Oliver. "Hope yeh don't mind it strong."
Oliver wrapped his hands around the mug, the warmth seeping into his chilled fingers. The tea was bitter, but he didn't mind. It was the first time in weeks someone had offered him something without expecting anything in return.
Fang flopped onto the rug with a groan, tail thumping lazily. Hagrid settled into the chair opposite Oliver, his huge frame nearly swallowing it whole.
"Bin meanin' to invite yeh," Hagrid said. "Saw yeh that night, out by the forest. Playin' and singin'. Brave, that. Most first-years wouldn't dream of steppin' that close."
Oliver looked down into his mug. "I didn't mean to get in trouble. I just… needed somewhere quiet."
"No trouble," Hagrid said firmly. "Creatures don't mind a bit of music. Forest listened to yeh that night."
Oliver swallowed hard. The memory of the stillness, the way the owls had shifted in the branches, came rushing back. He hadn't imagined it.
"Yeh play well," Hagrid continued. "Got a gift. Don't let the others take that from yeh."
The words hit harder than Oliver expected. He blinked quickly, staring at the steam curling from his tea. "They think I'm strange. Everyone does."
"Strange ain't bad," Hagrid said, leaning forward, elbows on the table. "Strange makes the world interesting. Look at me. Never fit in anywhere proper, but the forest don't care. Animals don't ask what blood yeh are, or what house yeh're in. They just know if yeh mean harm or not."
Oliver let out a shaky laugh. "You sound like you're saying I should live in the forest."
Hagrid grinned beneath his beard. "Wouldn't hurt yeh to spend time there. Good place to be, if yeh respect it."
Silence settled between them, not uncomfortable, just quiet in the way a hearth fire fills it. Oliver glanced toward his guitar, propped against the chair leg. Hagrid's eyes followed the glance, then returned to him.
"Play somethin', if yeh like," Hagrid said gently. "Don't have to sing. Just a bit of music."
Oliver hesitated, then reached for the guitar. The wood was familiar, the strings cool under his fingertips. He strummed softly, letting the notes fill the hut. They sounded different here—not echoing, not dissolving, but wrapping around the warmth of the fire and the smell of earth.
Fang let out a contented sigh, shifting on the rug. Hagrid leaned back, listening, his eyes soft.
Oliver didn't play anything grand, just a melody that had lived in his head since the Sorting, a simple rise and fall that echoed the ache in his chest. When he finished, he let the last chord fade into the crackle of the fire.
"Lovely," Hagrid said, voice low. "Brings the room alive."
Oliver ducked his head, cheeks hot. "It's nothing special."
"Don't sell yourself short," Hagrid replied. "Special's just another word for different, and different's what makes a song worth hearin'."
For the first time since arriving at Hogwarts, Oliver felt his chest loosen. The hut was small, cluttered, imperfect, but it was safe. And in that safety, the music didn't feel strange—it felt right.
The fire had burned low, glowing red in the hearth, when Hagrid suddenly pushed back his chair. Fang thumped his tail once, expectant.
"Come on then," Hagrid said, reaching for a lantern that hung near the door. "Got a bit of a job t' do before the night's done. If yeh don't mind a walk, that is."
Oliver blinked. "Now? Outside?"
Hagrid nodded, already shrugging on his enormous moleskin coat. "Don't worry, we won't go far. Just the edge o' the forest. Unicorns've been sheddin' hairs—need to collect what's left behind before they get lost in the underbrush. Valuable, they are. Useful for potions an' wands. Best gathered fresh."
Oliver's stomach knotted. The forest loomed dark and massive just beyond the hut. Everyone said it was dangerous, forbidden for a reason. But Hagrid was already lifting the latch, the lantern casting wide arcs of light, and something in Oliver leapt at the chance.
"I'll come," he said quickly, standing.
"Good lad," Hagrid replied, pleased. "Grab yer cloak. Air's damp tonight."
Oliver pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders and followed Hagrid out. Fang bounded ahead, ears flopping, nose low to the ground. The air smelled of wet leaves and woodsmoke. Beyond the ring of lanterns around the castle, the grounds seemed endless, rolling down toward the black line of the forest.
As they approached the tree line, Oliver's steps slowed. The trees were massive, their trunks thick as towers, their branches clawing at the sky. The shadows beneath them seemed alive.
Hagrid glanced back, his expression reassuring. "Don't fret. Forest ain't out t' get yeh. It's like anywhere else—respect it, and it'll respect yeh."
Oliver nodded, though his grip on his guitar strap tightened until his knuckles whitened. He stepped after Hagrid into the dark.
The forest was cooler than the open grounds, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and moss. Lantern light caught on low branches and glossy leaves, throwing quick shapes that shifted as they passed. Somewhere in the distance, an owl hooted. Closer by, leaves rustled with the weight of small creatures darting away from their footsteps.
Oliver tried to keep his breathing steady. Each sound seemed sharper here, more deliberate. Even his own steps sounded loud against the soft ground.
"Stay close," Hagrid murmured, holding the lantern high. Its glow carved a small bubble of gold around them, enough to see the path. Fang padded just ahead, tail wagging as though this were an ordinary stroll.
"Unicorns," Hagrid explained in a quieter voice, "are gentle. Don't hurt no one. But they're shy. Hardly let themselves be seen. If yeh do, consider it luck."
Oliver nodded again, eyes scanning the trees. His heart pounded so hard it felt like it echoed in his ears.
After a while, Hagrid slowed, crouching to the ground. "Here," he said, setting the lantern down. He reached into a low bramble and drew out a long, silvery strand caught in the thorns. It gleamed even in the dim light, impossibly fine, like moonlight spun into thread.
Oliver leaned closer, mesmerized. "That's… beautiful."
"Aye," Hagrid agreed, carefully coiling the strand. "Only shed hairs, mind. Never plucked. Forest provides what it means to."
They moved further along the path, gathering a few more strands where they clung to branches or the rough bark of trees. Oliver carried a small pouch Hagrid had given him, the shimmering hairs lying inside like captured starlight.
Then Fang froze, nose high, ears pricked.
Oliver's breath caught. Hagrid straightened slowly, one hand motioning for Oliver to stay still. Lantern light wavered as he lifted it higher.
Between the trees, something glowed faintly. Not fire. Not lantern. A pale shimmer, moving with the slow grace of water.
Oliver's eyes widened as the shape resolved: a unicorn.
It stepped into a shaft of moonlight that filtered through the canopy, its coat white as silver, mane drifting like silk. Each movement was fluid, soundless. Its horn caught the faint light, gleaming like crystal.
Oliver couldn't breathe. He had seen drawings in books, read scattered mentions in lessons, but nothing came close to the real thing. The unicorn's presence filled the clearing, quiet and reverent, as though even the forest hushed to honor it.
The creature lowered its head slightly, and its dark, liquid eyes found Oliver. For a heartbeat, the world narrowed to that gaze.
He didn't think. He didn't weigh the risk. He just hummed.
The sound slipped out, soft and trembling at first, but it steadied into the rhythm he had used on the train, in the corridors, in the hut. His fingers brushed the strings, coaxing a low, gentle chord.
The unicorn flicked its ears. It didn't bolt. Instead, it took a step closer, hooves whispering against the moss.
Oliver's throat closed around a gasp. He kept playing, barely breathing. The notes filled the clearing like mist, curling between the trees, and the unicorn tilted its head, as if listening.
For one impossible moment, Oliver swore it understood.
Then the unicorn stamped once, a sharp sound in the hush. It lifted its head, mane spilling like liquid light, and turned. With a fluid motion it melted back into the trees, vanishing into shadow as if it had never been there.
Silence followed, thick and heavy, broken only by the hammering of Oliver's heart.
He lowered the guitar, staring into the dark where the unicorn had stood. "Did that… really happen?"
Hagrid's face was a mix of wonder and approval. "Aye. It did. And I'll tell yeh this, Oliver—unicorns don't come that close for just anyone. They're wary, proud creatures. But yeh… yeh've got somethin' in yeh they trust."
Oliver couldn't speak. His chest felt too full, like it couldn't hold the moment.
Hagrid picked up the lantern again, his voice gentler now. "Come on. Best head back before the forest thinks we're tryin' to make a night of it."
The walk back passed in a blur. The forest no longer felt menacing; it felt alive, aware in a way Oliver couldn't name. Every rustle, every flicker of shadow seemed less threatening, more like acknowledgment.
When they reached the hut again, Hagrid stowed the pouch of unicorn hairs carefully on a shelf. Fang collapsed onto the rug, snoring almost instantly.
Oliver sat in silence, his guitar resting against his knees. He still felt the unicorn's gaze on him, heavy and knowing.
"You've got a gift, Oliver," Hagrid said at last, his deep voice carrying the weight of certainty. "Not just the music. The forest answered you tonight. That ain't somethin' that happens every day."
Oliver looked up, startled. "Answered me?"
Hagrid nodded. "Creatures know when someone's got respect for them. But yeh… yeh've got more than that. Yeh've got a way o' speakin' they understand. Don't lose that."
Oliver swallowed hard, blinking against the sting in his eyes. "I won't."
When he finally left the hut, the castle loomed ahead, windows glowing against the dark. But he didn't feel the same dread at returning. In his pocket, the pouch of unicorn hairs shimmered faintly, a secret reminder of the night.
For the first time since the Sorting, he felt that maybe Hogwarts wasn't all whispers and laughter. Maybe, just beyond its walls, there was a place for him.
As he crossed the grounds, the forest behind him seemed to shift with the breeze, branches swaying gently, as if in farewell.