Morning at Hogwarts usually carried a rhythm all its own: clatter of cutlery, low hum of student chatter, the occasional owl swooping through the rafters. But this morning, the Great Hall buzzed louder than usual, voices sharp with lingering gossip from the Ministry's failed seizure.
The Gryffindor table was thick with rumor. Fred and George had already retold the moment of Dawlish's humiliation three different ways, each time with exaggerated hand gestures and booming voices. Hermione kept shushing them, though she wore a small smile herself.
Harry, quieter, kept glancing across the hall. Oliver sat near the middle of the Gryffindor table now—not at the far ends, not hiding. His plate sat mostly untouched, the black phoenix, perched tall and silent on the bench behind him, feathers gleaming dark as midnight, eyes sky-blue and steady.
It was enough to keep half the hall whispering.
"Look at it," a Ravenclaw murmured two tables down. "Just… sitting there."
"Not it," another corrected. "Her. Didn't you hear? That bird's practically his shadow."
"Reckon it'll screech again if someone nicked his toast?" a Hufflepuff joked nervously.
Oliver ignored the comments. He had learned, quickly, that silence was sharper than answering every murmur. His friends—Harry, Hermione, and the twins—handled most of the defense anyway.
But the atmosphere shifted when the great doors opened with a heavy swing.
Conversations faltered. Heads turned. Forks stilled.
Four figures entered, moving with the kind of quiet assurance that needed no announcement.
Nicolas Flamel, silver-haired and straight-backed, carried the calm of centuries in his bearing. At his side, Perenelle moved with a grace sharper than steel, her eyes scanning the room like a queen surveying her court.
Behind them walked Newt Scamander, his coat a little too patched for ceremony but his presence unmistakable. At his side, Tina carried herself with brisk composure, her gaze sharp yet kind.
The silence broke into gasps and hurried whispers.
"The Flamels—?"
"And—Merlin, is that Scamander?"
"Not here—at Hogwarts?"
Dumbledore rose from the staff table, arms open wide. "Welcome, my friends." His voice rolled through the hall, warm and commanding at once. "This is a rare honor indeed."
The guests inclined their heads in greeting, acknowledging the staff and the sea of astonished children. The authority they carried wasn't loud, but it pressed down all the same. Even the most skeptical Slytherin lowered their eyes.
Oliver froze, fork clattering against his plate. Why were they here? Why were legends walking through the doors like they had come just for breakfast?
His Phoenix shifted behind him, feathers rippling in a soundless tremor. The phoenix's eyes glowed faintly, not in warning but in recognition, as if she too understood that something important had arrived.
Dumbledore stepped forward to clasp Nicolas's hand.
"It has been too long," the Headmaster said.
"Not long enough, some would say," Perenelle answered, her lips twitching with dry humor. "But today, I believe we are most welcome."
Newt, meanwhile, had already half-turned toward Oliver, his eyes bright, curious. Tina touched his sleeve gently, reminding him of the setting.
Dumbledore's gaze flicked to the boy. "There is one in particular who will benefit most from your company. Oliver D. Night."
The hall seemed to exhale at once, every student's eyes swiveling toward Oliver.
Fred muttered under his breath, "Blimey, mate, you've got quite the guest list these days."
George grinned. "Try not to faint, yeah?"
Oliver swallowed hard. His hands were damp where they rested on the table. He hadn't asked for this. He hadn't asked for any of it.
Perenelle's gaze found him easily, sharp but not unkind. Nicolas's followed, warm with something close to pity—or perhaps recognition.
Newt offered a small, encouraging nod.
"Would you join us, Oliver?" Nicolas asked, his voice carrying effortlessly despite its softness.
It wasn't a request, not really. But it wasn't unkind either.
Oliver rose, His Phoenix rising with him in a smooth motion, wings folding neatly as she settled again on his shoulder. The entire hall watched him step away from the Gryffindor table, each footstep echoing louder than the chatter had moments before.
Harry leaned closer as he passed. "You've got this," he whispered.
Hermione gave a firm nod of encouragement.
Oliver didn't answer. He simply walked, steady as he could manage, until he stood before the four guests.
Dumbledore's office had been prepared for the meeting. Sunlight filtered through tall windows, dust motes dancing lazily in the air. Books lined the walls, their spines glinting gold and silver. The strange instruments whirred and clicked softly, though they seemed subdued, as though curious themselves.
The professors took their seats—McGonagall, stern but curious; Flitwick, eyes sparkling; Sprout, hands folded calmly. Snape leaned in the corner, arms crossed, expression unreadable, though his gaze flicked to His Phoenix more often than Oliver.
Dumbledore sat behind his desk, folding his hands. "Please, take your time."
Nicolas and Perenelle sat together, their presence filling the room without effort. Newt and Tina sat opposite Oliver, close enough to speak easily.
His Phoenix perched high on the back of Oliver's chair, her feathers brushing the edge of his hair, her eyes bright as stars.
For a moment, no one spoke.
Then Newt leaned forward, elbows on his knees, voice gentle. "Oliver… would you tell us how you felt, the very first time this phoenix appeared to you?"
Oliver blinked. He hadn't expected the question to be so… simple. He glanced up at Nyx, then back at the man who had written the very book on magical beasts.
"I…" His throat felt dry. He swallowed. "It wasn't like calling. I didn't… ask."
Newt nodded patiently. "Then how did it happen?"
Oliver closed his eyes for a moment, memory tugging him back to that night in the woods. The music, the loneliness, the sudden rush of heat and light.
"I was playing," he said finally. "Music. I thought I was alone, but then—she was just there. Out of the dark. She didn't feel like a stranger. More like… like she'd been waiting."
The room was silent except for the quiet scrape of Newt's quill as he jotted notes.
"And what did you feel?" Nicolas asked softly.
Oliver hesitated. He wasn't used to this—so many people waiting on his words. But he found himself speaking anyway.
"Not afraid," he said. "Not really. More like—like something fit. Like a piece I didn't know was missing."
Perenelle's expression softened, a flicker of something almost maternal crossing her features.
His Phoenix trilled softly, pressing her beak against his shoulder.
Newt tilted his head. "Have you given her a name?"
Oliver froze.
The thought had never crossed his mind. He had never needed to call her. Their bond had been wordless, unspoken. She was simply there, part of him, as natural as breath.
But now, with all their eyes on him, the realization pressed in. She deserved a name.
Slowly, he turned his head. His Phoenix met his gaze, eyes luminous blue, impossibly deep.
For the first time, he felt the weight of needing a word to define what already was.
And in that moment, a name surfaced—ancient, powerful, right.
He drew in a breath.
"…Nyx," he whispered.
The bird lifted her wings slightly, feathers shivering with approval, and trilled a note that filled the room with warmth.
The professors stirred, surprised by the resonance. Even Snape's eyes narrowed, as though unwillingly impressed.
"Nyx," Oliver repeated, firmer now. "After the goddess of Night. She came from chaos. Like she came to me."
The name settled into the room like a seal pressed in wax—final, undeniable.
And Nyx leaned close, her head pressing against his forehead, causing a small glimmer to happen. As if sealing the bond and accepting her new title.
Nyx's approving trill lingered in the air long after Oliver spoke her name, like a ripple spreading outward. The sound seemed to coat the room in warmth, humming faintly in the bones of everyone present.
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled, but he said nothing, allowing the silence to stretch—a silence full of recognition, as though something sacred had just been spoken into being.
Newt was the first to lean forward again, his quill forgotten. His voice was hushed, reverent. "A fitting name," he said. "And one she seems to claim herself."
Nyx ruffled her feathers, as though pleased by the acknowledgment.
Oliver touched her wing gently, uncertain of what to do with so many eyes on him. He wasn't used to speaking much at all, let alone with legends and professors listening as if every word mattered.
But something had shifted. The moment he gave Nyx her name, it was as though a barrier cracked inside him—an opening where words could flow.
Nicolas studied him quietly. "Oliver," he said, "since Nyx appeared, have you noticed any changes in yourself? Anything unusual that you feel should be mentioned?"
Oliver hesitated, frowning slightly. He glanced at Nyx, who watched him with unblinking blue eyes.
"…Yes," he admitted softly.
The word alone made the professors lean forward. McGonagall's quill hovered above her parchment. Flitwick's eyes gleamed with the thrill of magical discovery. Even Snape straightened subtly, his expression cool but intent.
Oliver swallowed. "Things that weren't normal for me before. They've been happening since she came."
"Take your time," Nicolas said gently.
So Oliver did. He drew in a breath, let it out slow, and began.
"The first thing," he said, "was with books. I've never been bad at reading, but I never remembered much. It took me longer than others to keep things in my head." His brow furrowed. "But now, when I read, it's… different. Words stick. I can remember whole passages without trying. Even when I close the book, it's like I can still see the pages. Like they're burned into my mind."
Hermione, seated off to the side, nearly dropped her quill. "That's remarkable," she breathed.
Flitwick clapped his tiny hands once. "A form of eidetic recall! Very rare, very valuable in spellwork. Quite extraordinary."
Oliver shifted uncomfortably at the attention, but pressed on.
"The second thing," he said slowly, "is harder to explain. It's… my body. I feel like I understand it better now. Like it listens." He raised his hands, flexing his fingers. "Before, I'd trip, or lose balance. Now I can feel every movement. It's like there's a thread, and I can follow it to adjust."
Tina tilted her head, curious. "Do you mean heightened coordination? Or something more?"
Oliver hesitated. Then, instead of answering, he closed his eyes. He pictured Nyx's wings—the dark feathers tipped with blue, gleaming faintly in light.
And when he opened his eyes again, gasps filled the room.
Streaks of deep midnight blue threaded through his dark hair, shimmering like Nyx's own markings. They glowed faintly in the light, unmistakable.
McGonagall's lips parted, her composure faltering. "A Metamorph…!"
Hermione's jaw dropped.
Even Snape's eyes flickered in surprise, though his voice was cool as ever. "So. The boy reveals another trick."
But Perenelle leaned forward, her voice fierce. "Not a trick. A truth. One accelerated, perhaps, by his bond."
Newt scribbled furiously, muttering to himself. "Metamorphic tendencies awakened… fascinating… bound to phoenix resonance…"
Oliver blinked, reaching up to touch his hair, startled. The streaks faded back to black slowly, as though embarrassed by their own boldness.
"I didn't mean to," he murmured. "It just… happens when I think too hard."
"You control it more than you think," Nicolas said calmly. "A gift like this doesn't surface without reason. Nyx may have stirred what already slept within you."
Nyx trilled low, as if in agreement, brushing her feathers against his cheek.
Nicolas's gaze softened further. "And what of your sight, Oliver? Has anything changed there?"
Oliver hesitated longer this time. His hands tightened against the edge of the chair.
"Yes," he admitted finally. "But it's strange."
Newt leaned forward. "Strange how?"
Oliver drew a breath. "Sometimes… if I push, I can see things. Not like normal. It feels like… like the air itself changes."
McGonagall frowned. "Show us, if you're able."
Oliver hesitated. Then he closed his eyes, pressing into the feeling he'd discovered late at night when Nyx perched above him, watching.
He pulled at his magic, directed it toward his eyes.
When he opened them again, the reaction was immediate.
Gasps filled the chamber.
Oliver's irises glowed a vibrant sky-blue, reflecting Nyx's own. But it wasn't just glow—there was depth, a shimmer like threads of light weaving in water, as though a second world lay beneath the surface.
He blinked, and the world unfolded.
Streams of magic rippled around every person, thin threads of color winding through their forms. Dumbledore's aura shimmered gold and silver, vast and warm. McGonagall's was sharp green edged with steel. Flitwick's danced in pale blue sparks, effervescent. Even Snape's was visible—dark, turbulent violet, tightly coiled like smoke trapped in glass.
Oliver's breath hitched. He could see the glow of enchantments on the shelves, the wards humming faintly across the walls. He could see life itself woven in strands he hadn't known existed.
"It's…" His voice was hushed, awed. "Magic. I can see magic."
The professors stirred, shocked murmurs breaking out.
"And farther too," Oliver added quickly. "I can see things far away, as if they're close. And in darkness—it doesn't matter. It's clear."
Perenelle's eyes glistened faintly. "The sight of a phoenix, given to one who shares its bond."
Newt's voice shook with excitement. "Remarkable! Unprecedented! To channel so directly—to mirror the creature's senses—this changes everything we know about phoenix symbiosis."
Oliver's gaze lingered on Nyx, still glowing. The effort pressed against him, heavy. His limbs trembled.
Then, as the magic drained from him, the glow faded. He sagged slightly in his chair, suddenly exhausted.
Nyx shifted immediately, pressing against him, her presence warm and grounding.
McGonagall's voice was quiet, reverent. "In all my years teaching, I have never seen the like."
Flitwick whispered, "What a gift…"
Sprout leaned forward, gentle. "And what a burden. He'll need guidance."
Snape's voice cut through, cool but sharp. "Guidance or not, this makes him a target. Do not forget that."
Oliver flinched, but Nicolas's voice cut across, firm. "He is not a target. He is a bearer of gifts, chosen not by accident but by bond. And gifts are meant to be nurtured, not feared."
Perenelle added, her tone edged with steel: "If the Ministry wishes to call it danger, let them. We will call it what it is—potential."
Newt scribbled furiously, then stopped, setting the quill down. He met Oliver's gaze directly. "Never let them name you what you are not. You are not a beast. You are not a mistake. You are a boy who was chosen. That alone makes you worthy."
Oliver's chest tightened, words catching. Slowly, he nodded. "Thank you."
For once, he didn't feel like hiding behind silence.
The meeting wound down, the professors still murmuring to one another in disbelief, already speculating on what Oliver's abilities might mean for his future studies.
But Oliver himself sat quietly, Nyx perched steady on his shoulder. For the first time since arriving at Hogwarts, he felt not just like an outcast who had stumbled into something strange—but like someone who belonged to it.
He glanced at Nyx, her feathers brushing his cheek again, and whispered so only she could hear: "We're not mistakes. Not anymore."
Nyx's trill was soft, approving, a promise in sound.