The fire in Albus Dumbledore's chambers burned low, throwing long, skeletal shadows against the curved stone walls. The scent of lemon drops, faint but constant, lingered as always. Stacks of parchment sat neatly on his desk, quills perched like patient birds waiting to write again, but the man himself was not seated. He paced.
His hands were folded behind his back, and his long, dark-blue robes whispered against the floor with each measured step. The quiet tap of his boots was the only rhythm in the room, save for the occasional pop from the fire.
"Undocumented," he murmured aloud, his voice low and thoughtful. "A phoenix not of flame, not of ash, not of light—" He stopped mid-step, turned toward the fire, and raised his brows. "But of shadow. And stars."
He tilted his head, studying the flames as if they could answer.
Phoenixes had been known throughout history—rare, revered, and deeply bound to the lives they chose. They were not summoned, not commanded, but bonded, appearing only to those chosen by destiny itself. The fact that Fawkes perched on his own stand in this very office was proof enough of how unusual, how selective, these creatures were.
And yet…
Dumbledore closed his eyes, recalling the scene in Hagrid's clearing as though he stood there still: the boy at the piano, voice cracking but strong; the aura of magic flaring wildly around him; and then that creature, black as the void between stars, its eyes holding entire galaxies. He had felt its presence in his bones. Not light. Not fire. But something that hummed with eternity.
"Phoenixes do not multiply easily," he muttered. "They do not choose twice. And yet…"
He paced again, slower this time, stroking his beard. "Another bonded. Not recorded. Not foreseen." He paused, his mouth tightening into a thin line. "And not mine."
That last thought sat heavier than the rest. Phoenixes had long been tied to his own family line. Old tales—half history, half myth—spoke of Dumbledores and their strange affinity for these creatures, the bird of fire finding kinship with their blood more often than chance could allow. It was whispered, even among his own kin, that a phoenix was as much a Dumbledore legacy as their wandcraft or their peculiar streak of eccentricity.
So why, then, did this boy—this Oliver Night—stand with a phoenix at his side?
Dumbledore moved to his desk at last. His long fingers slid across the parchment stacks until he found the one he had drawn out earlier. A list of names, written in his own steady script: students, their backgrounds, the notations he kept on them.
Oliver Night.
He traced the letters with one forefinger, reading the neat details he had written: orphan, raised without notable guardians, little trace of magical ancestry in known records. Gift for music. Withdrawn. Quiet. Now suddenly accompanied by a phoenix unseen in all known magical history.
But what caught his attention most—what had caught it before—was the middle initial.
Oliver D. Night.
The quill stroke was faint, written by Oliver himself on the Sorting parchment, but it was there. Dumbledore had noticed it once, idly. Tonight, it blazed at him like a signal flare.
"D," he whispered aloud.
His eyes narrowed. He leaned back in his chair, hands steepled under his chin. "So few in the wizarding world would even think to keep such an initial. And yet…"
Could it be chance? Yes. It could. But chance and phoenixes did not share a bed.
He thought of his own brother, of Aberforth, gruff and resentful, who had chosen a simpler life. He thought of Ariana—his throat tightened briefly, old grief never fully dulled. He thought of bloodlines that had splintered and scattered, of names altered over the years.
D…
The thought gnawed at him.
"What are you, Oliver Night?" he murmured. "An orphan with no traceable line… or something closer to my own history than even you realize?"
He stared at the name until the ink seemed to blur. His suspicion thickened, rooting deeper with every remembered detail. The way the boy had sat at the piano, eyes closed, as if the music itself was an extension of his breath. The surge of magic that had rolled through the clearing—not trained, not shaped, but raw and ancient, answering his call. And then the phoenix, rising out of him as though it had always been waiting.
The bond between wizard and phoenix was supposed to be rare. Singular. Unmistakable. He had thought his own connection with Fawkes unique, unparalleled. But now there was another, unlooked for, unrecorded, bonded to a boy who seemed to carry more than his orphan's name suggested.
Fawkes stirred on his perch by the window. The golden bird opened one fiery eye and fixed it briefly on his master.
Dumbledore met that gaze, his lips tightening faintly. "You felt it too, didn't you?" he asked softly.
Fawkes let out a single, low trill, neither cheerful nor mournful—simply acknowledging. Then he closed his eye again.
Dumbledore leaned back in his chair, sighing through his nose.
He would not act. Not yet. The boy was young. Too young. To press him now would be folly. Better to watch, to wait, to see how the threads of fate wove themselves around him.
And yet… suspicion gnawed.
The fire crackled. The room was quiet save for his breathing and the faint rustle of papers. He lifted his quill, thought for a moment, then set it down without writing.
Instead, he whispered the name once more into the fire, as though testing the sound:
"Oliver D. Night."
The flames crackled back, swallowing the syllables whole.
Dumbledore sat in silence, suspicion a shadow at his shoulder, until the candles burned low
The first whispers began the very next morning.
Oliver didn't wake to them—he woke to the soft weight of talons on the back of his chair. The black phoenix perched there, wings folded like the night sky itself, its head tilted as if watching over him while he slept. The faint glow of blue at the tips of its feathers shimmered against the stone walls.
For a long moment, Oliver lay still, staring. The events of the night before felt distant, like a half-remembered dream, but the bird was here, alive, galaxies swirling in its eyes. When he sat up, it shifted gracefully, hopping to his shoulder as though it had been doing so all his life.
By the time he left the dormitory, the whispers were waiting.
Students stopped mid-stride in the corridor, eyes wide. Some gasped outright, pointing as the phoenix rode lightly on Oliver's shoulder, claws careful not to break the skin. Others pressed back against the walls, uncertain whether to admire or recoil. The galaxy-eyed creature regarded them with regal calm, wholly unbothered by their awe.
"Merlin's beard," a Hufflepuff muttered as Oliver passed, clutching his books to his chest. "Is that—"
"Not like any phoenix I've seen," another whispered.
Oliver felt their stares burn across his back, but he no longer lowered his head or hurried his steps. The warmth of the phoenix's presence steadied him, the faint pulse of connection still humming at the edges of his mind.
By the end of the first week, it had become a sight so common that gossip no longer buzzed at every turn—it became a quiet awe instead.
Sometimes the phoenix perched on his shoulder, tall and imposing. Other times, it landed atop his head, the great bird balanced absurdly, tilting its head this way and that. Fred and George nearly collapsed in the corridor the first time it happened, clutching their sides with laughter.
"Night's got a night-bird hat!" Fred crowed, doubled over.
"It's fashion," George declared solemnly. "Only for the boldest trendsetters."
Oliver had snorted and, to his own surprise, actually laughed with them.
Other days, the bird soared above him in lazy arcs, its midnight wings leaving faint trails of blue shimmer. Students craned their necks to watch it, awed by the grace of each beat. Even the sternest professors paused when it swept past classroom windows, shadows of starlight crossing their papers.
Professor Sprout dropped her trowel once when she caught sight of it through the glass of the greenhouse. Madam Hooch followed its arc across the sky with narrowed eyes, muttering something about balance and precision.
Even Snape, though he sneered when the creature circled the dungeons, never deducted a single point.
"Undisciplined," he muttered once under his breath when Oliver passed, "but not without potential."
The words might have been an insult, but Oliver caught the way Snape's eyes lingered on the phoenix before flicking away. That pause said more than any compliment.
Oliver walked taller in those days. Not arrogantly, not with swagger, but with a quiet steadiness. He answered when spoken to. He smiled sometimes when Fred or George teased him. When Hermione asked about his practice, he gave her more than a curt nod—he explained, halting but sincere, how he tried to balance study with music, how the two seemed to fold together like melody and harmony.
Harry walked with him again. Not always—Ron sulked too loudly for that—but enough to remind Oliver of the train ride, of the easy beginnings of friendship. They spoke quietly, often about Quidditch or classes, but once, when Oliver admitted he was still nervous about being different, Harry clapped his shoulder and said, "Then we'll be different together."
It was small, but it was enough.
The phoenix was always there. Not intrusive, not demanding, but constant. Its presence silenced sneers, softened ridicule, and reminded Oliver at every step: Not alone.
By the time Transfiguration class arrived, he carried that reminder into the classroom like armor.
Professor McGonagall stood at the front, her robes crisp, her glasses flashing in the lantern light. She tapped her wand against the desk sharply, and the room fell into silence.
"Today," she announced, "we move beyond theory." Her Scottish burr was firm, precise. "You will attempt transfiguration of inanimate objects into animate creatures. Rocks into sparrows."
A collective murmur rose, half excitement, half nerves.
"Silence," McGonagall snapped, and it fell again. "Transfiguration is not charmwork. It requires precision. Focus. Will. Half-hearted intent will yield half-hearted results. And transfiguration gone wrong can be… dangerous." Her eyes swept the room, narrowing slightly at the Gryffindor table where Seamus Finnigan fidgeted nervously.
Oliver sat straighter at his desk. A smooth, gray rock lay before him, solid and ordinary. He stared at it, listening as McGonagall gave the incantation. Around him, students whispered to themselves, practicing wand movements.
He took a breath.
The phoenix perched on the windowsill above, head tilted, watching. Its galaxy eyes met his. For a heartbeat, Oliver felt the warmth in his chest again, the faint pulse of confidence.
He raised his wand.
The incantation rolled off his tongue, steadier than he expected. His wrist flicked as instructed. For a long moment, nothing happened. Then—the rock shivered. A crack sounded softly. Feathers burst across its surface. And with a tiny flutter, wings unfolded.
A sparrow hopped onto his desk.
Gasps rippled across the classroom.
Oliver blinked at it, stunned. He hadn't expected it to work—not fully. But there it was, alive, tilting its head, chirping faintly as though confused to be here.
Professor McGonagall's gaze snapped toward him. Her brows rose slightly, though her expression remained composed. She strode over, her robes sweeping the floor. "Mr. Night," she said, her voice clipped. "Again."
Oliver swallowed, nodding. He tried again—focus, will, intent. The second rock trembled, cracked, and another sparrow fluttered free.
The murmurs grew louder. Students turned in their seats, eyes wide.
McGonagall's lips thinned. She studied him for a long moment, then said quietly, "Something more ambitious, if you please."
Oliver's pulse quickened. He looked down at his desk, at his ink bottle. Slowly, carefully, he aimed his wand. His voice was quiet but firm. The ink bottle shimmered, stretched, warped. With a faint pop, a butterfly lifted into the air, wings delicate and translucent, catching the lantern-light.
A hush fell. Even McGonagall's eyes softened briefly.
The butterfly fluttered once, twice, then dissolved back into glass. Oliver sat straighter, heart pounding, but he did not shrink this time.
The phoenix on the sill ruffled its feathers, a faint shimmer of blue scattering across the floor like starlight.
McGonagall tilted her head. Her lips pressed into a line that almost, almost looked like a smile. "Remarkable
Professor McGonagall's sharp eyes swept the classroom before landing squarely on Oliver. She gestured briskly toward a heavy oak table near the front.
"Mr. Night," she said, her voice clipped but steady, "if you are so inclined—demonstrate something… more substantial."
The class shifted restlessly, whispers flaring. "More substantial?" someone hissed. "As if the butterfly wasn't enough!"
Oliver's stomach tightened. A table wasn't a rock or a quill. It was solid, heavy, unyielding. He stared at it, heart hammering. For a moment, doubt clawed at him—the old voice telling him he wasn't enough, that he should sit back down and disappear.
Then, faintly, he felt it: the warmth brushing across his thoughts. Not alone.
He lifted his gaze to the windowsill. The black phoenix sat there, feathers shimmering faintly at the tips, galaxy eyes unblinking. It tilted its head at him, as if to say, You've already proven it. Now show them.
Oliver took a breath and raised his wand.
The classroom hushed, all eyes on him.
He focused. Not just on the wood, but on what he wanted it to become. He pictured the shape, the weight, the power. Not a sparrow, not a butterfly—something noble, something fierce. A creature that commanded respect.
He whispered the incantation. His wrist moved in a steady arc, precise as music.
The table shuddered. Wood creaked, warped, splintered. Gasps rang out as legs twisted, reshaped, and grew thicker. The flat surface curved upward, edges rippling like muscle beneath skin. A tail unfurled where the grain stretched thin.
Then the head rose. A mane spread in waves of golden-brown, rippling as though touched by a phantom wind. Two eyes, bright and piercing, blinked open.
The lion stepped down onto the stone floor. Its paws landed with solid thuds, claws clicking faintly. The students shrieked and pulled back in their seats, but the beast did not roar. It paced slowly, its muscles rolling beneath its fur, a low rumble vibrating in its chest.
Oliver's wand trembled slightly, sweat beading at his brow, but he held firm. He could feel the magic stretching him thin, but his will—stronger now than ever—refused to bend.
The lion circled once, then stopped. Its golden eyes fixed on Oliver. Slowly, it lowered its massive head in a bow.
A silence thicker than any spell filled the room.
And then, with a flick of Oliver's wand, the lion dissolved. The mane faded into woodgrain. The body shrank, limbs folding back into angles and corners until, with a final groan, the table stood whole again.
The silence broke into a wave of whispers, gasps, and half-shouted exclamations.
McGonagall herself stood frozen for a moment. Her lips parted, eyes wide behind her square spectacles. It was rare—almost unheard of—for the professor to let awe slip through her composure. She cleared her throat, straightening.
"Remarkable," she said finally, her tone clipped but carrying weight. "That will suffice."
Oliver sank back into his seat, chest heaving, sweat damp on his forehead. But for the first time in a classroom, he smiled—not a nervous twitch, but a small, steady curve of pride.
The phoenix ruffled its wings on the sill, scattering faint sparks of blue light across the floor. Its galaxy eyes gleamed, fixed on him.
For once, Oliver didn't just feel accepted. He felt expected
The room was still vibrating with whispers when Oliver lowered his wand. The lion was gone, the table stood whole again, but the echo of its growl lingered in everyone's chest.
"Did you see—"
"It bowed—bowed to him!"
"That wasn't first-year magic—that wasn't—"
The voices overlapped, half awe, half disbelief. A few Slytherins muttered sharply among themselves, jealousy sharp in their tones. One of them hissed, "Show-off," though the word rang hollow against the astonishment flooding the room.
Hermione's hands were pressed together, eyes shining. "Oliver, that was—there aren't words—" She shook her head, smiling so fiercely it hurt her cheeks.
Harry leaned forward, grin breaking wide. "That was brilliant, mate. Absolutely brilliant."
Oliver's face flushed, but this time he didn't duck his head. "Don't start branding me yet," he said, voice still shaky from the magic but carrying warmth. "I'm not a circus act."
Professor McGonagall rapped her wand against the desk sharply, and the chatter died in an instant. Her eyes swept the class, then returned to Oliver. For a moment, the faintest crack of a smile touched her lips, though it was gone almost as quickly as it appeared.
"Take note, all of you," she said, her tone crisp, every syllable firm. "That—" she gestured toward the table "—is the result of focus. Of will. Of discipline. Mr. Night has demonstrated what is possible when you do not allow doubt to distract you. Aspire to it."
The murmurs grew louder again, awe and envy threading together. McGonagall raised her chin.
"For such a display of skill," she said firmly, "Slytherin will receive thirty points."
Gasps rippled across the room—thirty was no small reward. Some Gryffindors looked scandalized; even a few Slytherins gaped at Oliver, as though unsure whether to cheer or sulk at the fact their quiet housemate had just hauled them ahead in the tally.
Fred muttered under his breath, "Thirty points and a lion? He's going to outshine all of us by Christmas."
George elbowed him. "Better him than Malfoy."
Oliver flushed, but instead of shrinking, he met McGonagall's gaze and gave a small, steady nod. "Thank you, Professor."
Her expression softened—just for a heartbeat—before she turned back to the class. "That will conclude today's exercises. Return your desks to order."
Chairs scraped, quills shuffled, but the air in the classroom felt charged, alive. Students cast sidelong glances at Oliver as though he'd suddenly stepped into a place none of them could reach. Some looked wary, others envious, but a good many looked… inspired.
Oliver exhaled slowly, his shoulders loosening. The sweat had cooled against his skin, leaving him tired but not hollow. For the first time, he felt like he'd shown something of himself beyond music.
He glanced toward the windowsill.
The phoenix still perched there, wings folded, galaxy eyes steady. It tilted its head, and faint warmth brushed across his thoughts. Not words—not fully—but a thread of reassurance.
Oliver smiled faintly. Not alone, he thought back. Not as a question, not as a plea, but as an acknowledgment.
The bird ruffled its feathers, scattering sparks of blue light that glimmered across the stone floor. Its gaze did not waver.
And for the first time in a classroom, Oliver didn't feel like an orphan in borrowed robes. He felt like someone expected to stand tall.
The bell rang. The lesson ended.
But for Oliver, the day had only just begun