Oliver D. Night walked down the slope toward Hagrid's hut with his guitar strapped across his back and a small lantern swinging from his hand. The air was cold, sharp enough to sting his nose, but it kept his thoughts clear. The day had been long, full of whispers in the corridors and sidelong glances from Slytherins, but here—here the castle's noise thinned into stillness.
Hagrid's hut squatted at the edge of the Forbidden Forest like a guardian, smoke curling from the chimney, candlelight flickering in the windows. The tall grass was damp with dew already, and the forest loomed just beyond, a jagged black line against the sky.
When Oliver opened the door, warmth and the smell of stew wrapped around him. Hagrid was bustling about inside, his giant frame bent awkwardly as he tried to clear a corner that was already too cramped with crossbows, boots, and bundles of herbs.
"Oliver!" Hagrid boomed, nearly dropping a ladle. "You're early, good lad, good lad! Come in, come in—she's here already."
Oliver's eyes snapped to the far corner.
The piano.
It gleamed, polished wood catching the firelight. The house-elves had delivered it exactly as promised, set gently against the wall as though it had always belonged there. A small bench rested in front of it, perfectly sized for him. Oliver set his lantern down, his throat tight.
He walked to it slowly, reverently, and let his fingers brush the edge of the lid. The keys winked white and black beneath the glow. It felt unreal. He pressed one, and the note sang clear and low, resonant enough to fill the hut.
The sound sank deep into his bones.
"They brought it last night," Hagrid said proudly, watching him. "Didn't hear a peep. Just woke up and there it was. House-elves are marvels, they are."
Oliver nodded mutely. He didn't trust his voice. He'd asked for this, quietly, almost embarrassed—and they had given it freely, without question.
He sat on the bench and played a simple scale, letting the notes ripple into the wood of the hut. His fingers stumbled once—he hadn't practiced as much piano as guitar—but the sound soothed him anyway.
For a while, it was only him and the piano.
A knock came at the door.
Hagrid lumbered to open it, and there stood Nicholas and Perenelle Flamel, their cloaks drawn against the night. Nicholas carried a lantern that cast his lined face into deep shadows, while Perenelle's smile was bright enough to match the fire inside.
"Welcome, welcome!" Hagrid said, ushering them in. "Come on now, we've just started settlin'."
Oliver scrambled up from the bench, bowing his head. "Thank you for coming."
Perenelle touched his shoulder as she passed, warm and steady. "We wouldn't miss it."
Nicholas's eyes flicked toward the piano, and though his face stayed composed, Oliver thought he caught a glimmer of approval there.
Before they could sit, another knock came—three brisk raps. Hagrid frowned, opened the door again, and in stepped Albus Dumbledore.
Oliver's breath caught.
The Headmaster filled the doorway like a benign storm cloud, his long silver beard gleaming in the lantern light, half-moon spectacles twinkling. He carried no lantern, no staff—just the calm presence of someone who had been expected all along, even if he hadn't.
"Albus," Perenelle said warmly, "I told you it was no more than a small gathering."
"And I," Dumbledore replied cheerfully, "told you that I am very fond of small gatherings." His eyes landed on Oliver, twinkling. "If my presence is unwelcome, I will take myself off at once."
Oliver swallowed hard, then forced himself to stand straighter. "No, sir. You're welcome here. You helped me at Halloween. If you'd like to stay, then please do."
Dumbledore inclined his head with a smile. "Thank you, Mr. Night. I should like that very much."
They moved outside, the air colder now. The sky stretched vast and dark, constellations glittering. Hagrid had already cleared a patch of grass near his hut, close enough to the forest that the shadows pressed near.
Dumbledore lifted his wand with a graceful flick. Wood rose from the ground, shaping itself into a polished stage just large enough for the piano and Oliver's bench. Lanterns floated up, stringing themselves along invisible cords, their light flickering gold across the clearing. Benches and stools sprouted in a half-circle facing the stage.
Protective wards shimmered faintly around the perimeter, like a bubble of glass catching the moonlight. Dumbledore tapped the air lightly with his wand, and the shimmer vanished from sight.
"The wards will keep you safe," he explained softly. "But the sound will carry. The forest deserves to listen too."
Oliver's chest loosened at the words. "Thank you."
Dumbledore inclined his head.
The next arrivals were less quiet.
Fred and George came stumbling down the slope, each trying to outdo the other in imitating a bugle fanfare. "Ladies and gentlemen!" Fred shouted."Wizards and witches of all ages!" George crowed."Tonight—one night only—""The incomparable, unstoppable—""Oliver Night!"
Their announcement ended in a mock drumroll on their thighs, and they collapsed into laughter.
Oliver groaned but couldn't stop a smile tugging at his lips. "You two are impossible."
"Correct," Fred said, clapping him on the back."And proud of it," George added, dragging him into a half-hug before they flopped onto one of the benches.
Behind them came Harry and Hermione, slower, quieter. They paused at the edge of the lantern light, uncertain.
Oliver caught their eyes and gestured them forward. "You're welcome here," he said simply.
Relief flickered across Harry's face. Hermione's smile was small but bright, like she'd been waiting for the words. They joined the twins on the bench, and for the first time in weeks Oliver felt the faint echo of that train ride—the one where friendship had come so easily.
Hagrid bustled about, dragging over stools that creaked under his weight. He plunked down beside Fang, who thudded against his boots with a sigh. "Best seat in the house," Hagrid declared proudly. "No arguin'."
The Flamels sat together with calm dignity, their lantern casting soft light over their faces. Dumbledore settled himself a little apart, his robes glowing faintly in the candlelight, his eyes sharp despite his genial smile.
Oliver stood by the piano, his fingers hovering just above the keys. The lanterns swayed in the faint wind, shadows shifting. The forest pressed close, silent but watchful.
And for the first time, he realized it wasn't just people who had come to listen.
Owls lined the branches above, round eyes gleaming. A fox crept to the edge of the clearing and sat back on its haunches, tail curled neatly. The faint shimmer of unicorn coats caught the light deeper in the trees. Even the centaurs stood just beyond the wards, silent, unmoving, their dark eyes fixed on the stage.
It was as though the entire forest had leaned closer.
Oliver's throat tightened. He glanced once at Harry and Hermione, once at the twins, once at Hagrid, the Flamels, and even Dumbledore. They were all watching, but none of them urged him forward. They just waited.
He turned back to the piano, the polished surface reflecting his face, pale in the lanternlight.
The lanterns swayed faintly above, their light catching in the shifting leaves. Oliver stood with one hand resting on the piano, every nerve in his body alive with the weight of expectation.
He wasn't alone—but he wasn't entirely sure what he was among.
The humans were easy enough to read.
Fred and George leaned forward on their bench, chins in their hands, exaggeratedly serious as if waiting for the punchline to a joke only Oliver knew. Harry sat stiller, his shoulders squared, green eyes locked on Oliver with quiet determination. Hermione had folded her hands on her knees, her gaze bright and encouraging, as though she could will steadiness into him if he faltered.
Hagrid loomed at the side, Fang curled at his boots, both master and hound watching with rapt patience. The Flamels sat serene, lantern glow painting their faces in warm amber, Perenelle's smile soft and Nicholas's expression unreadable but intent.
And then there was Dumbledore. He sat slightly apart, his half-moon spectacles glinting, his expression a mystery—equal parts mirth, gravity, and something deeper. His long fingers tapped lightly against his knee, as though keeping time with a rhythm only he could hear.
But beyond them, beyond the fragile boundary of benches and lanterns, the forest gathered.
Owls blinked from high branches, their eyes tiny moons. A fox crouched at the ward's edge, ears pricked. The shimmer of unicorn coats flickered deeper among the trees, silver-white like fragments of starlight come to earth. The faintest shapes of centaurs lingered in the shadows, half-concealed, statuesque, their gazes steady and ancient. Smaller creatures rustled in the undergrowth, their movements halting, drawn forward as though by unseen strings.
The wards held them at a distance, but the sound would carry. Oliver understood it instinctively: this night wasn't just for the people he had invited. It was for everything that called the forest home.
A hush fell, thick and deep. Even the night air seemed to draw taut, waiting.
Oliver sat at the piano bench. The polished wood was cold against his fingertips as he lifted the lid fully. The ivory and ebony keys gleamed in the lantern light, their pattern stark and clear. He flexed his fingers once, twice, trying to still the tremor in them.
Fred leaned forward, grinning. "No pressure, Night."George elbowed him. "He thrives under pressure. Look at him, practically glowing."
"Shut it, you two," Hermione hissed, though her lips twitched despite herself.
Oliver gave a small shake of his head, but their banter eased him just enough. The tension in his shoulders loosened, if only slightly.
Harry caught his eye across the clearing. His voice was quiet, meant only for Oliver. "Whatever it is—you don't have to hide it. Play it."
Oliver swallowed. A dozen words crowded behind his teeth—about loneliness, about betrayal, about being sorted into the wrong place, about how music was the only way he knew to make himself visible—but none of them made it out. He only nodded.
He glanced at the Flamels. Nicholas gave the faintest incline of his head, as though granting permission. Perenelle's eyes softened, and her lips curved in encouragement.
Then Oliver looked to Dumbledore. The headmaster's gaze was unreadable, but there was no judgment in it. Only patience. Only curiosity.
The silence stretched, not uncomfortable but heavy. The forest held its breath.
Oliver placed both hands on the keys. The cool smoothness steadied him.
"This won't be a happy song," he said quietly. His voice was almost swallowed by the night, but those closest heard. Harry stiffened slightly, Hermione's brows knit, the twins exchanged a glance, and Hagrid's massive hand closed gently around Fang's scruff.
Perenelle's voice floated back to him, soft and sure. "Then let it be honest."
Oliver closed his eyes.
The lanterns flickered once, their light bending with the wind. The forest leaned closer.
And he pressed down.
The first chord rolled out, low and resonant, vibrating through the wood of the piano, the stage, the earth itself. It was not warm. It was not gentle. It carried weight—grief, defiance, and the kind of ache that can't be carried in words.
The sound spread into the night, slipping through the wards, into the trees, into the waiting ears of man and beast alike.
No one moved.
Everyone knew at once: this was no celebration. This was truth, and it would not be a gentle one.