The piano loomed in front of him, lantern-light spilling across its polished surface, the keys gleaming pale against the dark. Oliver sat on the bench, his back straight but tense, his fingers hovering above the cool ivory. The small clearing outside Hagrid's hut had gone utterly still, as though the very air knew what was about to happen.
He could feel every eye on him. Fred and George sat at the front, their usual mischief absent, replaced by an unusual, almost reverent curiosity. Harry leaned forward on the bench, elbows on his knees, watching Oliver as though bracing for the weight of what he already sensed was coming. Hermione sat beside him, her posture perfect, but her hands were clasped so tightly in her lap that her knuckles showed pale.
Behind them, Hagrid loomed like a mountain, his massive frame hunched in order to fit the benches, Fang's heavy head resting against his knee. The gentle, wet shine of Hagrid's eyes reflected the lanterns, though he tried to hide it with a cough.
The Flamels sat a little apart, their presence dignified and calm, though Oliver could see the way Nicholas's gaze sharpened, assessing, dissecting, while Perenelle leaned slightly forward, her eyes wide and soft as though she had already chosen not to analyze but simply to feel.
And then, there was Dumbledore. He sat quietly, one leg crossed over the other, his hands resting in his lap. The headmaster's half-moon glasses glimmered in the light, hiding his eyes, though the faint smile at the corner of his mouth told Oliver he was paying attention to every breath, every pause, every shift in the boy's posture.
Beyond them, the forest gathered. Owls lined the branches, their round eyes glowing faintly in the lantern light. A fox crouched low at the wards, its body tense but its ears tilted forward. Farther still, unicorns shimmered at the edge of the trees, their silver coats faint glows in the darkness. And deeper yet, Oliver thought he could see the vague, sculpted outlines of centaurs—watching, waiting, their presence heavy as stone.
He wasn't sure if he was more afraid of failing in front of his classmates and teachers, or of failing in front of the forest itself.
His throat tightened. He lowered his hands, let them brush the keys, and pressed down on a single note. It rang low and resonant, rolling across the clearing, vibrating faintly through the wood beneath his feet.
And then he began.
I feel like I'm at standstill waiting for you to tell me I'm okIf time heals, tell me why do I kill myselfTryna show you I'm not a mistake
The words came out husky, thick at first. He didn't try to polish them. The tremor in his voice was part of the truth. The piano's steady chords filled the gaps, carrying the weight he couldn't carry alone.
Fred shifted, his grin vanishing completely. George tilted his head, his expression unusually solemn. Harry's eyes softened, his jaw tight. Hermione blinked quickly, her lashes wet.
Hagrid swallowed hard, the sound audible even over the music. Fang lifted his head and gave a soft, whining sound, almost as though even he understood.
The Flamels did not move, but their expressions shifted. Nicholas's eyes darkened, intent, his lips pressed thin. Perenelle leaned forward, her hands folded at her lap, her brows lifting in a look of recognition and ache.
Even Dumbledore's faint smile faded into something unreadable.
I've got qualities that I'm not proud ofI've made promises that I walked out onI've had days I feel I don't deserve loveSo think what you think, just don't call me a…
The chorus reverberated into the night, filling the space like a wound exposed. The fox at the edge of the ward sat down, ears pricked as though listening. The owls shifted their wings but did not leave.
The unicorns stepped closer. Their delicate hooves left no sound, their heads bowed slightly, their silver eyes reflecting Oliver's pain back at him. The centaurs murmured among themselves, their words too low to catch, but their silhouettes leaned closer in the trees.
The wards shimmered faintly, not resisting the forest's advance, but acknowledging its presence.
Oliver pressed harder on the keys. He could feel the weight of everything pressing against him—his housemates' glares, Daphne's whispered betrayal, Malfoy's smirk, Snape's disdainful silence. But he could also feel the lighter things: the twins' relentless loyalty, Hermione's stubborn defense, Hagrid's giant heart, Harry's hesitant but real apology.
The music carried both weights.
Mistake, might've made someCan't argue with that, but I ain't one
The twins exchanged a look at those words. George's lips twitched, and Fred muttered softly, "Too right."
Harry sat back slightly, nodding once, his eyes never leaving Oliver. Hermione pressed her lips together, as though holding back the words she wanted to say.
Hagrid made a sound suspiciously like a sob and tried to hide it behind a cough.
Even though I sometimes get afraid ofHaving to face the wrath of an anxious meI get it 'cause I actuallyFeel the same sometimes I thinkI might be a lost cause who turns off…
The song pressed forward, Oliver's hands trembling slightly over the keys but never faltering. The words he had already laid into the night still hung heavy in the lantern-light clearing. For a moment, he thought of silence—of letting that ache stand on its own. But the truth inside him wasn't finished.
So he drew a breath and let it go.
'Cause the way I read
Into what I've been through
You'd think I'm mental
But it pays off though when the rent's due
I pursue what I love and if it goes
South and falls down just know
I'll stand on my own two feet
Don't you see
Those that oppose on me
Most won't leave
Thinkin' I might retreat
Show my teeth quick if you turn on me 'cause
The words cut sharp, but the piano carried them, filling the gaps between bitterness and resolve. The twins exchanged a look—Fred swallowing hard, George blinking more than once, his grin long gone. Hermione pressed her hands flat to her knees, her lips quivering, while Harry leaned forward, green eyes burning with something between pride and recognition.
The forest seemed to lean closer too. The unicorn at the treeline tossed its mane, stamping the ground softly. The fox sat upright, eyes shining, ears twitching to every phrase. Even the centaurs, usually so aloof, shifted in the shadows, their murmurs low and reverent.
Oliver's aura flared brighter, sparks of blue light lifting off his shoulders like fireflies, carried upward by the weight of his honesty.
I feel like I'm at standstill waiting for you to tell me I'm ok
If time heals, tell me why do I kill myself
Tryna show you I'm not a mistake
I've got qualities that I'm not proud of
I've made promises that I walked out on
I've had days I feel I don't deserve love
So think what you think, just don't call me a
Just don't call me a
Just don't call me a
The repetition struck harder than any shout. Each "don't call me a" rang with the defiance of a boy refusing to be defined by his scars. The clearing seemed to vibrate with it, lanterns swaying violently before steadying again.
Hagrid sniffled wetly, his massive shoulders shaking as he tried—and failed—to keep his composure. Perenelle clutched Nicholas's arm, her own face wet with tears. Nicholas himself looked stunned, whispering something in French about "power drawn from truth." Dumbledore, ever still, leaned forward slightly, his eyes sharpened behind the half-moon glasses, a thousand thoughts contained but none spoken.
And Oliver kept going.
"Mistake 'cause I'm not one
Misplaced but I found a
Lot of resentment
Causes a mess when you let it get to the place of
No confidence
Struggle with it, that's obvious
But not enough to make me second guess
If I'd die for the ones I love
So don't you get confused
Thinking if you
Bring me down I'ma just choose
To let myself get used
I don't live like that
I feel trapped
I might lash out
I gotta watch my back
Cross my path, especially with ill intent
You'll regret you ever took that task
If and when this thing could all go bad
Don't you act like no one warned you yet 'cause…"
On that last line, Oliver's magic snapped.
The aura erupted, a cloak of blue fire and shadow spilling outward, flooding the stage. Sparks spiraled higher, forming constellations in the night above his head. The wards rippled but did not resist—they let the sound, and the truth, pass freely into the forest.
The piano resonated louder, deeper, as if feeding on the energy. The notes weren't just played anymore—they were alive.
Hermione gasped, covering her mouth. Harry's fists clenched. Fred whispered, "This is—bloody hell…" while George could only nod mutely.
Perenelle's eyes brimmed. Nicholas muttered, "Not resonance… not magic as we know it… but something older." Even Dumbledore's hand twitched where it rested on his lap, as though he were restraining himself from rising.
And then Oliver drove the song into its final chords.
I feel like I'm at standstill waiting for you to tell me I'm ok
If time heals, tell me why do I kill myself
Tryna show you I'm not a mistake
I've got qualities that I'm not proud of
I've made promises that I walked out on
I've had days I feel I don't deserve love
So think what you think, just don't call me a…
Mistake.
The final word cracked through the clearing like thunder. His aura peaked, blindingly bright for a moment, then burst open.
From the swirl of shadow and starlight, a shape unfolded.
It was a phoenix—but not like any known to Hogwarts.
Its feathers were pitch black, swallowing the lantern-light whole. At the very tips of its massive wings shimmered faint streaks of midnight blue, glowing like fragments of the night sky.
Its eyes glowed a vibrant, impossible blue, each one holding the depth of entire galaxies, constellations swirling in eternal motion. Looking into them was to fall into infinity—and to feel infinity looking back.
The clearing gasped as one.
Fred grabbed George's arm. George whispered, "Bloody beautiful…" Hermione sobbed openly, clapping a hand to her mouth. Harry leaned forward, spellbound, unable to look away.
Hagrid's sob was loud and unrestrained. "That ain't in any book," he croaked, his face wet.
Nicholas muttered, "Undocumented… unrecorded…," his voice trembling. Perenelle pressed a hand to her heart. "Born of his soul…"
Even Dumbledore stood slowly, his voice low, reverent. "A phoenix of shadow and starlight. Not fire, not ash—something new."
The phoenix cried—not bright like Fawkes, but deep and sonorous, shaking earth and bone alike. The unicorns bowed their heads. The centaurs lifted their faces. The owls shifted but did not flee. The forest recognized it.
It circled once, its blue-tipped wings trailing faint starlight, then landed beside Oliver. Its galaxy eyes fixed on him.
Oliver's chest seized. But in those eyes, he did not see mistake. He saw recognition.
He saw acceptance.
For the first time in his life, he felt chosen