The Great Hall had not gone silent so much as it had changed its kind of noise. The roar of applause had faded into a soft buzz, laughter spilling here and there in half-dazed bursts, the way people talk after fireworks have lit the sky. Oliver slipped away from the Gryffindor table, not wanting to draw any more eyes, though it was impossible not to feel them still on his back.
The air outside the castle was cooler than he expected. Autumn had settled fully now, sharp and crisp, each breath carrying the scent of fallen leaves. The sky above was clear, the stars cold and bright, the moon an unblinking witness.
Nicholas and Perenelle Flamel walked on either side of him, not speaking at first. Their presence was steadying—like bookends holding his nervous thoughts in place. They didn't hurry him, nor fill the silence with polite chatter. It was the kind of silence that welcomed words, whenever they came.
Oliver clutched his guitar by the neck, more for comfort than need. His fingers ached slightly from playing, but he didn't mind. It grounded him.
Finally, Perenelle spoke, her voice warm and measured, like water poured carefully into a glass. "You have a remarkable courage, Mr. Night. To share yourself so openly, in a hall so quick to judge."
Oliver's face warmed. "It didn't feel brave. Just… something I had to do."
"That," Nicholas said, his voice lower, gravelly like an old oak, "is often the root of true bravery. Doing what compels the heart, not what seeks applause."
Oliver ducked his head, unsure how to answer.
They continued down the sloping lawn toward the lake. The castle behind them gleamed with windows of firelight, their reflections caught in the black glass of water. Somewhere far off, the giant squid's tentacle rippled the surface in lazy arcs.
"I…" Oliver hesitated, the words tumbling in his throat. "I've written something. A book." He glanced between them, quickly adding, "It's not much. Just a story. I don't… I don't want anything from it. I only—" His hands tightened on the guitar. "I only want someone to read it. Someone who might understand."
Perenelle slowed, her skirts whispering against the grass. "What kind of story?"
Oliver's mouth twisted. He felt small suddenly, foolish. "About gods. Demigods. A boy who doesn't belong, who finds out he's part of something bigger." His voice dropped. "It's called The Lightning Thief."
The Flamels exchanged a glance—quick, but full. Nicholas's brows drew together thoughtfully, Perenelle's lips curving with quiet recognition.
"I don't expect you to do anything with it," Oliver rushed on. "Not to help, or to publish. I just—" His throat caught. "I just want it to be real outside my head."
Perenelle's hand touched his shoulder lightly, like a mother steadying a child without binding him. "Stories are older than gold, Oliver. Older than alchemy. They carry us when nothing else can. If you share it, we will read it. Gladly."
Nicholas nodded slowly. "Words shape worlds, even when they look like simple ink. Do not ever think them small."
The tightness in Oliver's chest eased. His face flushed, but it was the kind of warmth that came from being believed, not judged. He whispered, "Thank you."
They reached a patch of trees where lantern light no longer touched, the moonlight spilling silver across the grass. The shadows stretched long and soft. It was here Nicholas stopped, folding his hands before him.
"Tell me, Oliver," he said. "Why do you play? For applause? For escape? For proof?"
Oliver thought of the Great Hall, the eruption of cheers. He thought of Daphne's turned back, of Malfoy's smirk, of the twins pounding the table, of Harry's quiet apology. He thought of Hagrid's wet eyes and the house-elves humming unseen in the corners.
"I play," Oliver said slowly, "because music says what I can't. And when I share it, I don't feel alone."
Perenelle's smile deepened, soft as candlelight. "Then you understand what most grown men never do."
Nicholas gave a faint grunt of approval. "Connection. That is the heart of alchemy, boy. Transmutation of solitude into unity. You do it without a cauldron or flame."
Oliver blinked, startled by the weight of the comparison.
The Flamels did not explain further. They let the words sit, heavy and warm, until the night itself seemed to nod in agreement
The three of them lingered under the trees, the moon casting a pale sheen over the grass. The chill in the air made Oliver's breath fog faintly, though he barely noticed. His heart was still thundering from what he'd just admitted, and from the way Nicholas and Perenelle had answered without hesitation.
For the first time in a long time, he felt… safe.
Perenelle tucked her hands into her sleeves and studied him with the same gentle curiosity she had shown in the Hall. "You know," she said softly, "when someone shares their gift, people will respond in all sorts of ways. Some with joy. Some with jealousy. Some with fear. You must not confuse the noise for the truth."
Nicholas inclined his head. "You showed that tonight. Half the hall adored you, half looked for cracks to exploit. You will see more of that, if you keep playing. Which you must."
Oliver's brows furrowed. "Even if it makes people hate me?"
Nicholas's eyes glinted in the moonlight. "Especially then. The things worth doing always make someone uncomfortable."
Oliver let the words sink in. He thought of Malfoy's sharp eyes, of Ron's scowl, of Daphne's hesitation. He thought of the way Fred and George had cheered until their voices cracked, the way Harry had come back to sit beside him, the way Hermione had stood firm. The balance felt uneven, but maybe… maybe that didn't matter.
Perenelle's smile returned, softer now. "We are very old, Oliver. Old enough to have seen music and stories rise and fall in countless forms. What you did tonight reminded me of something simple: the world is moved not by power, but by resonance. By the way one heart stirs another."
The words wrapped around him like a cloak. He blinked hard, unwilling to let his eyes sting here in front of them.
Silence stretched comfortably for a time, broken only by the faint rustle of leaves. Then Oliver shifted the guitar in his hands, glancing toward the shadow of the forest beyond the lawn.
"I'd like to play again," he said quietly. "But… not in the Hall. Not with everyone watching." He hesitated. "In the forest. For the animals. For people who… actually want to listen. It's smaller, but it feels… right."
Nicholas's brows lifted, intrigued. "The forest is not an easy stage."
"It's the honest one," Oliver said quickly, surprising even himself. "When I play there, the creatures come close. They don't judge, they just… listen. It feels like the magic itself hums with the sound."
The Flamels exchanged one of those quick, wordless looks again. Then Perenelle's face brightened with delight. "I would very much like that."
"As would I," Nicholas agreed, his voice even but tinged with interest. "If you invite us, we will come."
Oliver's chest loosened. He nodded, clutching the guitar tighter. "Then I'll plan it. Soon."
They began to walk back toward the castle, the night cool around them. Oliver's mind spun with possibilities—not of audiences and applause, but of the forest alive with sound, of animals swaying to his music, of the Flamels' steady faces watching from the edge of the firelight.
As they neared the doors, Oliver's steps slowed. He glanced around as though checking for ears, then lowered his voice. "Um… I asked the house-elves for something. Just to help."
Nicholas's mouth twitched in faint amusement, but he said nothing, letting Oliver go on.
"They said they'd bring a piano to Hagrid's hut. Not for tonight—just… for later. So I can play something different in the forest, if it feels right. They didn't even hesitate. Just said yes." His voice warmed with disbelief. "They always do."
Perenelle's expression softened with something close to reverence. "The loyalty of the unseen is a treasure. Remember to cherish it, Oliver."
"I do," he whispered. And he meant it.
At the doors, the Flamels paused. The castle glowed behind them, alive with laughter and whispers still, though quieter now.
Nicholas extended a hand, not formal, not grand—just offered. "Thank you for trusting us."
Oliver shook it, his hand dwarfed by the alchemist's. "Thank you for listening."
Perenelle leaned down slightly, brushing a hand through Oliver's hair with the tenderness of someone who had comforted many children before him. "We look forward to your forest concert, Oliver Night."
His throat caught at the sound of his name spoken that way—full, firm, kind.
They turned back toward the staff wing, their steps unhurried, their presence like a flame that did not consume but warmed. Oliver lingered in the doorway, staring after them until they were gone from sight.
He pressed his forehead briefly against the cool stone arch, his heart still racing.
Tonight, he thought, was the beginning of something. He didn't know what, not yet. But he would be ready.
Clutching his guitar, he made his way to his small hidden classroom. A tray of food waited there, courtesy of the elves, along with a folded note in neat handwriting that simply said: The piano is safe in Hagrid's hut. Whenever you are ready.
Oliver laughed softly, the sound breaking into something like relief.
"Thank you," he whispered to the empty room.
Then, carefully, he set his guitar down and let himself dream of the forest