The sound of applause still rang through Oliver's chest like a second heartbeat. For a long moment he couldn't breathe, couldn't think, could hardly stand for the sheer weight of the sound crashing over him. His hands trembled faintly on the guitar strap, but it wasn't the kind of trembling that came from fear—it was from being filled too suddenly, too completely, with something he hadn't thought possible here: acceptance.
It had started with Fred's wild cheer, George's boisterous "Encore!" ringing like firecrackers across the Great Hall. But it hadn't stopped there. The Gryffindors had taken it up first, clapping, shouting, stomping their feet until the benches rattled. Then the Hufflepuffs, their applause warm and earnest, not caring who watched them. Ravenclaws joined in with surprised laughter, reluctant at first but then swept up in the swell. Even some of the Slytherins had tapped along, a few daring to clap outright despite Malfoy's furious glare.
The noise rolled like thunder, filling every inch of the enchanted ceiling. Oliver stood at the center of it all, his guitar pressed to his chest like a shield and a friend in one. For the first time since he'd walked into this castle, he didn't feel invisible. For the first time, he felt heard.
But as the applause ebbed, the air seemed to shift. A shimmer at the far end of the staff table wavered, like heat above a summer road. Students murmured, pointing. Then, with a quiet ripple that prickled the skin of anyone watching closely, the shimmer dissolved.
Gasps broke out immediately.
Two figures stood there, side by side: an older man and woman, both clothed in robes that seemed spun of history itself. The man was tall and lean, his beard trimmed close, his eyes sharp but gentle. Symbols of alchemy shimmered faintly in silver thread across his sleeves, each stitch precise as though drawn from an ancient text. The woman beside him glowed with calm radiance, her dark hair streaked faintly with silver, her gaze kind yet commanding. She wore no jewels but carried herself as if she needed none—her presence was ornament enough.
Nicholas and Perenelle Flamel.
The names rushed through the hall in hisses and squeaks and gasps.
"It can't be—"
"They're supposed to be—"
"Nicholas Flamel? The Nicholas Flamel?"
A Ravenclaw boy dropped his quill, ink splattering across his parchment as he stared. A Gryffindor girl clutched her friend's sleeve so hard the seams strained. Even some of the teachers sat straighter, their eyes widening.
Malfoy's smirk dissolved into open-mouthed disbelief.
Dumbledore rose with a twinkle in his eye, his hands folded lightly in front of him. "I did mention, did I not, that I invited friends who love music more than I love sweets?" His eyes gleamed merrily over his half-moon glasses. "May I present Nicholas and Perenelle Flamel."
The hall erupted into another wave of whispers, louder than before, but different this time. It wasn't about Oliver anymore. It was about the weight of history suddenly seated at their table. The Flamels—legends, myth made flesh—stood here, revealed from enchantment like characters stepping out of a storybook.
Oliver felt his stomach drop and soar at once. He had heard of them, of course—every wizard had. The alchemist who created the Philosopher's Stone, the immortal couple whispered of in awed tones. And now they were here, watching him. His mouth went dry.
Perenelle's eyes found him first. She smiled, warm and steady, like sunlight breaking through clouds. Nicholas inclined his head, grave and dignified.
Students fidgeted, their whispers tumbling over one another. Gryffindors were the loudest, many slapping the table in excitement now that their support of Oliver had been validated by the most famous wizarding couple alive. Hufflepuffs beamed at each other, murmuring things like, "I knew he had something special." Ravenclaws scribbled notes so furiously it was a wonder their quills didn't snap. And Slytherins—Slytherins twisted in their seats, half in awe, half in panic.
Draco Malfoy looked stricken, his pale face pinched with fury as if the applause itself were a betrayal. Crabbe and Goyle sat frozen, not laughing now, not daring to. A few Slytherins further down clapped cautiously, as if trying to hedge their bets.
At the staff table, reactions varied as wildly as in the hall. Flitwick nearly bounced in his seat, his hands clasped under his chin, eyes shining with childlike delight. Sprout's face was rosy with pride as she clapped along with the students. McGonagall's brows arched, her lips pressed thin, but the gleam in her eyes betrayed her interest. Snape's sneer had never looked sharper; he leaned back, arms crossed, as though he wanted to sink into shadow and erase the moment. Dumbledore alone seemed unsurprised, though the corners of his eyes crinkled more deeply than ever.
Nicholas stepped forward, his voice carrying easily despite its softness. "Young man," he said, his accent light but marked by centuries, "you play not only with skill, but with honesty. That is rarer than most imagine."
Oliver swallowed, bowing his head slightly. His heart pounded, and words caught like pebbles in his throat.
Perenelle added, her voice like music in itself: "And with courage. To stand before so many, knowing most expected you to stumble, and still sing with truth—that is its own kind of alchemy."
The words struck him deeper than he could say. His mouth worked, and before he could stop himself, he blurted, "I—I've written something too. A book."
The hall went silent again, every ear straining to catch his words. Oliver's face burned, but the words rushed out like a dam had broken. "It's—it's about gods, and demigods. History, folklore. A story. If… if you'd like, I could send you a copy."
The students erupted into another wave of gasps. Malfoy barked a laugh, but it was brittle and forced, quickly swallowed by the weight of the moment.
Nicholas and Perenelle exchanged a glance—surprise, then delight. Perenelle stepped forward, her smile deepening. "We would be honored to read your work," she said warmly.
Nicholas inclined his head, his eyes solemn, as if Oliver had just offered him something of profound worth. "Indeed. Stories are the bedrock of understanding, young man. Guard them well—and share them freely."
Oliver's throat tightened. He nodded quickly, clutching the guitar like it might steady him.
The hall was alive with murmurs again, different from before—buzzing, curious, hungry. Oliver D. Night was no longer just the odd Slytherin with a guitar. He was the boy who had moved the Flamels.
And yet, the night wasn't finished.
Perenelle's voice rang clear above the whispers, gentle but firm. "We would hear more, if you are willing."
The hall hushed at once. Every eye turned back to Oliver.
Nicholas nodded, his expression serene. "Yes. Music, like alchemy, is best revealed in layers. Would you share another with us?"
For a moment, Oliver stood frozen. Another song? In front of them? His heart leapt into his throat, his palms slick against the guitar. He wanted to say yes—how could he not?—but his chest ached with nerves.
Then Fred and George, never ones to let silence sit, leapt to their feet again. "Encore!" they shouted in unison.
"Encore! Encore!" Gryffindors chanted, pounding the tables. Hufflepuffs joined eagerly, clapping and cheering. Ravenclaws shouted too, curiosity blazing. Even some Slytherins, caught in the tide, muttered along. Malfoy glared daggers, but his silence was a cage.
Oliver's face flushed, his breath uneven. He looked at the Flamels, at Dumbledore's patient twinkle, at the sea of faces now waiting.
"I…" His voice wavered, then steadied. "I'll play one more."
The hall erupted again, cheers shaking the floating pumpkins
The roar of cheers seemed to press against the walls of the Great Hall, spilling upward into the enchanted ceiling until even the bats wheeling above scattered in confusion. Students pounded the tables with fists and goblets, the chant of "Encore!" rolling like thunder.
Oliver's face flushed hot, the weight of a thousand eyes pinning him where he stood. For a heartbeat, he almost wished the floor would open and swallow him whole. Another performance? He'd barely gotten through the first one. His guitar felt like both lifeline and anchor, his pulse galloping in his throat.
But the Flamels' eyes stayed steady on him—Nicholas dignified, Perenelle kind, their presence like a tether pulling him upright. And Dumbledore, hands folded, twinkle in his gaze, seemed to say without words: The choice is yours. But you are safe here.
Oliver licked his lips. "The next one," he said slowly, his voice carrying across the sudden hush, "isn't JUST for guitar." His gaze dropped, then rose again with newfound steadiness. "It's written for violin Accompaniment "
Whispers rippled instantly:
"Violin?""Does Hogwarts even have one?""Where's he going to get that?"
Malfoy's laugh cut sharp through the buzz. "Hear that? He can't even play without begging for another toy!" Crabbe and Goyle cackled with him, but their noise was quickly drowned by the restless murmuring of the hall.
Oliver ignored them, lifting his chin toward Dumbledore. "Headmaster… if it's at all possible…"
Dumbledore tilted his head, lips curving in quiet amusement. His hand twitched faintly toward his wand—
POP!
Gasps erupted.
In the open space beside Oliver, a violin now lay upon a cushioned stand, its polished wood gleaming warmly under candlelight. The bow rested neatly across it, horsehair glinting white against the dark finish.
Students craned their necks, exclaiming in confusion.
"What—where did—""Did Dumbledore—?""No one even saw a spell!"
Only the staff seemed unsurprised, though several exchanged knowing looks. McGonagall's brows lifted; Flitwick nearly bounced in delight. Sprout chuckled softly. Snape's sneer sharpened, though something flickered in his eyes—something harder to name.
Dumbledore's gaze flicked briefly to the corners of the hall, to shadows no one else noticed, before settling back on Oliver, smiling as if this were all perfectly natural.
Oliver's breath caught. He knew.
The house-elves.
They had been there all along, hidden under disillusionment charms, watching, listening, carrying his music in their small hearts. They had given him this, as eagerly as they had tidied a hidden classroom for him weeks ago.
A lump rose in his throat. He bowed his head slightly toward the shadows, a silent thank-you.
The crowd buzzed, some in awe, others in disbelief. Fred cupped his hands, shouting, "See? Even the castle itself delivers what Night asks for!" George added, "Wait till Malfoy demands a golden harp for bedtime!" Laughter rippled through Gryffindor and Hufflepuff; even Ravenclaws chuckled. Malfoy's fury flushed him scarlet.
Oliver stepped toward the stand. His hands trembled as he lifted the violin, the instrument light but alive beneath his fingers. He tucked it gently under his chin, bow poised.
The hall stilled once more, silence falling so deep it seemed the very air held its breath.
The Flamels leaned forward, anticipation glowing in their eyes. The teachers watched, waiting. The students, spellbound, leaned closer. And in the unseen corners, the house-elves waited too, unseen but present.
Oliver closed his eyes, steadied his breath, and let the bow hover above the strings.
The Great Hall was silent, waiting for the first note.