The Great Hall was buzzing that morning long before Oliver walked through the doors. Rumors of the Transfiguration lesson had spread like spilled ink through parchment. Everyone had heard some version of it: that Oliver Night had turned a table into a lion, that it had bowed to him, that Professor McGonagall herself had awarded him thirty points on the spot. By breakfast, the tale had grown even wilder—some swore the lion had roared loud enough to shake the castle, others whispered that it had been as large as Hagrid.
All chatter stilled, however, when the boy in question stepped into the hall.
Oliver walked at his own pace, not hurried, not dragging his feet either. The black phoenix perched on his shoulder like a crown of midnight, its feathers tipped with faint glimmers of blue that caught the morning light streaming from the enchanted ceiling. Its galaxy eyes flicked across the hall, meeting stares without flinching, and students shrank back under the weight of that gaze.
The long tables were full—Slytherins at their own, Gryffindors laughing loudly, Ravenclaws bent over books, Hufflepuffs trading notes. Every pair of eyes followed him as he crossed the threshold.
There was a pause, a moment in which Oliver could have turned left toward the Slytherin table. He felt the weight of their expectation—their demand—that he take his place among them. Malfoy's pale face stood out among the cluster of sneers, already smirking as if waiting for Oliver to fall in line.
Oliver didn't.
He walked straight ahead. Past the glaring Slytherins, past the mutters, straight to the Gryffindor table. A few Gryffindors shuffled instinctively, making space before he even sat down. Fred and George grinned broadly and waved him over from further down, but Oliver slid into the bench beside Harry and Hermione, setting his plate down with quiet finality.
A ripple went through the hall like a stone dropped in water.
Harry gave him a sideways smile, relief softening his face. Hermione beamed, as though she'd been waiting for this moment all along.
And then Ron spoke.
"Figures," he muttered, not quite under his breath. "Stealing more attention again."
Oliver didn't look at him. He reached for toast instead, tearing it neatly, his movements calm. The phoenix shifted on his shoulder but didn't stir otherwise, its calm presence grounding him.
Ron pressed on, voice louder. "Surprised the Hat didn't just toss him here to begin with. Would've saved him the trouble of betraying his House."
The words pricked, sharp and hot, but Oliver let them roll past him. He bit into his toast, eyes on his plate.
"Shut it, Ron." Harry's voice was sharp, carrying further down the table than he intended.
Ron blinked, surprised. "What?"
"You heard me." Harry's jaw was tight. "He's welcome here. If you've got a problem, keep it to yourself."
Hermione leaned in, her voice firm. "Honestly, Ronald. If you can't be civil, then perhaps silence would suit you better."
Ron's face flushed red. He stabbed at his eggs with unnecessary force, muttering under his breath, but said nothing more.
Oliver glanced between Harry and Hermione, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. "Thanks," he murmured.
"Don't mention it," Harry said, already calmer now that Ron had sulked into silence.
Hermione gave him a warm nod, her eyes shining with pride.
For the rest of breakfast, Oliver ate quietly, but for the first time in years, he didn't feel the gnawing pit of isolation. The whispers in the hall were still there, but so was the warmth of company beside him.
By lunch, the school had split into camps.
"Did you see him? Walked right past his own House!"
"Traitor, if you ask me."
"No, it's brave. Who'd want to sit with Malfoy anyway?"
"Did you see the phoenix? Just sitting there on the bench like it owns the place!"
Oliver didn't argue with any of it. He simply continued choosing Gryffindor's table, again and again, each meal solidifying the quiet rebellion. The phoenix grew comfortable, sometimes hopping from his shoulder to perch on the back of the bench, sometimes spreading its wings wide enough to brush against the air above the table, scattering sparks of starlight across the plates.
For some, it was a wonder. For others, it was provocation.
By the third day, "traitor" followed him like a shadow whenever he passed the Slytherins.
The Slytherin common room seethed that week.
"He doesn't even sleep in our dorm anymore," one boy spat, pacing in front of the green fire. "He's got his own classroom. Special treatment."
"Special treatment," echoed another bitterly. "Points for lions, his own room, and that—thing—perched on his shoulder like he's some prince."
"It's dangerous," a girl hissed. "Shouldn't even be allowed in the castle. What if it attacks someone?"
There were nods, mutters of agreement.
The boy who had spoken first—Theodore Nott—crossed his arms. "I'm writing to my father. He'll know what to do. The Ministry won't like the sound of a first-year walking around with a beast no one's ever seen before. Especially one professors are handing points to like sweets."
A murmur of approval rippled through the group.
"Good idea," another said. "I'll write my parents too. If enough of us do, they'll have to take it seriously."
Draco Malfoy lounged in his chair by the fire, smirk curling his lips. "Go ahead. The Ministry hates nothing more than favoritism—especially when it isn't in their favor. Oliver Night thinks he can play Gryffindor's hero? Let's see how long he lasts once the owls start flying."
Laughter followed, though sharp and bitter. The decision was made: letters would go out before the week's end.
Word of the plotting drifted into the corridors within days. Oliver caught snatches of it: "letters… Ministry… dangerous…"
For the first time since the phoenix's arrival, a chill went through him. What if they did come? What if they tried to take the bird away? He pictured Ministry wizards with clipped voices and clipped wands, declaring rules and regulations, tearing apart the only bond that had ever felt like it was truly his.
The old fear clawed up his chest, threatening to close around his throat.
Then warmth brushed across his thoughts.
Not words—never words—but the steady reassurance of presence. The phoenix shifted closer on his shoulder, galaxy eyes meeting his. In their depths, Oliver saw calm certainty, not fear.
Not alone.
He exhaled slowly, his hands unclenching. The fear loosened its grip.
No matter what letters they wrote, no matter what whispers filled the hall, Oliver would not shrink. Tomorrow, and every day after, he would walk to Gryffindor's table, head high, and sit where he was wanted
Fred and George caught up with Oliver the next morning outside the Great Hall.
"Well, well, if it isn't our resident lion-tamer," Fred said with a broad grin.
"And Slytherin's most wanted," George added, giving a mock bow. "If you start charging for autographs, let us handle the profits."
Oliver gave them a sidelong look, the corner of his mouth tugging upward. "I think you'd make a fortune faster than I would."
Fred clutched his heart. "Did you hear that, George? He's finally learning."
"Quick, someone write it down before Malfoy makes him eat the page."
Their laughter followed him all the way into the hall, cutting through the thick tension of staring Slytherins.
At the Gryffindor table, Hermione was already waiting. She slid a seat open, smiling warmly as Oliver joined. Harry, sitting opposite, gave him a nod that said more than words.
Ron muttered something but kept his eyes on his porridge.
Fred and George plopped down further along, continuing their chatter about phoenix feathers making better quills than peacock ones. Their banter lightened the table, drawing chuckles from other Gryffindors, even if most eyes still darted toward the boy with the midnight bird.
Oliver ate quietly, but the warmth around him was undeniable. He wasn't sitting with a House—he was sitting with friends.
By midday, the rumors of the letters had spread beyond Slytherin. In the library, Ravenclaws whispered about Ministry involvement. In the courtyard, Hufflepuffs speculated whether Oliver's phoenix could really be classified as dangerous.
Hermione wrung her hands when she heard. "They could twist it, you know," she whispered urgently during study hour. "The Ministry loves rules. If they decide your phoenix doesn't fit into their neat little categories, they might try to seize it."
Harry leaned across the table. "They won't. Not while we're here."
Oliver glanced between them, his chest tightening. The thought of losing the phoenix was unbearable, but the steady hum of its presence reassured him. He touched the side of his shoulder lightly, and the bird tilted its head in silent acknowledgment.
"Let them try," Oliver said quietly. "It won't change anything."
Harry grinned. Hermione bit her lip but said nothing further.
The professors, however, were not so silent.
In the staffroom, the letters had become the subject of the hour. Snape was the first to bring them forward, his tone as smooth as ever.
"Concerns have been raised," he said, sliding a stack of folded parchments onto the table. "Students writing home. Parents responding. They claim the boy is receiving undue favoritism, and worse—that he is being allowed to keep a dangerous creature in the castle."
McGonagall's lips thinned to a sharp line. "Favoritism?" she snapped. "I awarded points for a display of remarkable skill, nothing more. And as for the creature, I've seen no indication of danger. Quite the contrary—the bird shows more discipline than most students."
"Nevertheless," Snape said smoothly, "perception becomes reality when enough voices repeat it."
Flitwick chimed in from his chair, peering over his spectacles. "From what I've observed, the bond between them is stable. The phoenix shows no hostility."
Sprout nodded. "It's as gentle as any creature I've seen, provided one treats Oliver with decency. Perhaps the issue lies not with the boy but with those who cannot stomach his differences."
Snape's expression darkened, but he said nothing.
Dumbledore, seated at the far end of the room, folded his hands. His eyes twinkled, though there was weight behind them. "The Ministry may receive letters, but they cannot seize what does not belong to them. A phoenix is not a pet. It is a bond. A gift freely given, not a possession to be registered."
Silence followed. Even Snape could not argue the point.
Dumbledore's gaze flickered, just for a heartbeat, toward McGonagall. "We must remember—this castle was built on the premise of nurturing the unusual, not stifling it."
Dinner that evening was a storm waiting to break.
Oliver walked into the hall, the phoenix perched on his shoulder, its feathers faintly glowing in the candlelight. Conversations faltered immediately. He made his way to the Gryffindor table, sitting once again between Harry and Hermione.
"Traitor," a voice hissed from the Slytherin table.
"Attention-seeker," another sneered.
Malfoy smirked, leaning back lazily. "Enjoy your borrowed glory, Night. It won't last."
Ron stiffened beside Harry, muttering under his breath, but Harry's sharp look kept him silent. Hermione's gaze flicked to Oliver, her expression steady and proud.
Oliver didn't flinch. He picked up his fork, eating calmly.
The Slytherins grew louder, emboldened by his silence.
And then the phoenix spread its wings.
The motion was slow, deliberate. Midnight feathers unfolded across the length of the Gryffindor table, their tips glowing with faint blue light that shimmered across goblets and plates. Gasps rippled through the hall as the bird lifted its head, galaxy eyes sweeping the room.
The whispers died.
The weight of that gaze silenced even Malfoy, his smirk faltering under the impossible depth in those eyes.
For a long moment, the hall was still.
Oliver lowered his fork. His hand brushed lightly against the phoenix's chest, and the bird folded its wings again, returning to its perch as though nothing had happened.
The spell was broken—but the message remained.
Oliver had not needed to answer the insults. The phoenix had answered for him.
He resumed eating, calm and steady, as though nothing had changed. But the hall buzzed in hushed tones, the ripples spreading wider than ever.
And for the first time, Oliver felt not just like someone surviving Hogwarts—he felt like someone reshaping it.