The next morning, Hogwarts was alive with chatter. Whispers followed Oliver everywhere he went, fluttering down corridors, slipping through stairwells, and floating across the Great Hall.
"Did you hear? The Cannons.""—a professional team—""—first year, can you believe it?"
At first, Oliver thought it was another round of gossip about Nyx, or about him sitting at the Gryffindor table instead of Slytherin. But when he caught two Ravenclaws leaning together at breakfast, one of them whispering excitedly, "Madam Hooch wrote to them herself!"—he froze, spoon halfway to his mouth.
The Chudley Cannons.
It didn't fully register until Harry leaned over from across the Gryffindor table. "You know, Ron's going to lose his mind when he hears about this."
Oliver blinked at him. "Why?"
"Because," Hermione said, smiling as she stirred her porridge, "the Cannons are his favorite team. He goes on about them all the time."
Ron's ears went pink. "They're not just my favorite, they're the best," he muttered defensively.
"The best at losing," George Weasley said from farther down the table, earning a laugh from Fred. "Honestly, Oliver, if you really are headed their way, you might save them from their record."
Fred grinned wide. "They'll have to rename them the Night Cannons."
Laughter rippled along the table, and Oliver ducked his head, embarrassed but strangely warmed. A part of him—the part that still felt like the boy with only a suitcase and a guitar—wanted to hide from all this attention. But another part, a braver, newer part, whispered that maybe this was what he had been waiting for all along. The Cannons. Ron's team. A chance to belong, not just as a musician or a boy with a phoenix, but as a flier. The thought took root quickly, and with it came a quiet determination: If they give me the chance, I'll take it.
Later that day, after Charms, Madam Hooch caught him as he was slipping his books into his bag.
"Night," she said briskly. "Walk with me."
He followed her into the corridor, his bag thumping against his hip. The woman's sharp stride carried them away from the crowd until they reached a quiet alcove by a tall window.
"You've heard the talk, I imagine."
Oliver nodded hesitantly. "About… the Cannons?"
Her eyes softened slightly. "Yes. I wrote to them. Told them what I saw with my own eyes—that you have the makings of a professional. I didn't do it for recognition, Night. I did it because talent like yours doesn't come around often, and I'll be damned if it goes to waste in classroom drills."
Oliver swallowed, unsure how to answer.
"So," she continued, "I want to know what you think. Do you want this? The attention, the expectation? Do you want Quidditch to be part of your future?"
He stared out the window. His first instinct was to shrug it off, to say he didn't know. But something in her steady gaze told him that wouldn't do.
"I think…" He hesitated, then tried again. "I think I want to. I never thought about it before, not really. But when I was flying, it felt… right. Like I belonged up there." He looked down at his shoes, then back up at her. "And if it's the Cannons—Ron's favorite team—then maybe I could make them proud. Maybe I could make him proud, too."
Hooch's lips twitched into a rare, approving smile. "Good. That's what I wanted to hear. Confidence, not doubt. Remember this, Night: flying isn't about fear. It's about trust—between you and the broom, between you and the sky. You've already shown you have it. The rest will come."
She clapped him on the shoulder, firm enough to jolt him forward. "I'll keep you informed if I hear back. For now, keep your head down and your broom steady. Understood?"
"Yes, ma'am," he said, a flicker of pride blooming in his chest.
By dinner, Fred and George had already gotten wind of the conversation. They sandwiched Oliver between them, slapping his back so hard he nearly choked on his stew.
"The Cannons!" Fred crowed."About time they got someone decent," George added."You'll be their star before long.""Front page of the Prophet—'Boy and Phoenix Revive Cannons'—""—or better yet, 'Oliver Night Ends Losing Streak.'"
Oliver laughed despite himself, shaking his head. "You two are ridiculous."
"Ridiculously right," Fred said.
Harry leaned across the table. "If you get in, I'll be the first to cheer for you. And you'd better let me fly with you on the pitch every now and then."
"Deal," Oliver said quietly, smiling.
Hermione gave him a small, approving nod. "It's proof, you know. Proof that you're more than the rumors. More than the house politics. People are starting to see you for who you are."
Oliver didn't answer right away, but the words stayed with him long after. Ron muttered something under his breath, too low to catch. His face was tight, but not just with jealousy—there was something else, a flicker of reluctant admiration. He couldn't help it: his favorite team might finally have hope, and Oliver was at the center of it.
That night, Oliver carried his guitar to his usual corner near the Gryffindor common room fire. Students shuffled by, glancing curiously, some whispering, but most too tired to linger. He plucked at the strings softly, humming under his breath. The notes echoed in the cozy space, light and simple.
A dark shimmer caught the edge of the firelight—Nyx had appeared, her wings folding as she settled delicately atop the head of the guitar. She tilted her sky-blue eyes at him, then chirped, low and sweet, matching his melody.
Oliver smiled faintly, shifting his fingers along the strings to draw her into the rhythm. She responded with a soft trill, almost like laughter. For a few minutes, the world felt quiet. No rumors, no professors debating his future, no Ministry breathing down his neck. Just him, his music, and the bird who had chosen him.
But even in that peace, shadows loomed. He caught Hermione frowning at a group of older Slytherins whispering near the stairwell. He noticed the way teachers hushed their conversations when students walked by. Oliver didn't know it yet, but beyond the walls of Hogwarts, the Ministry was stirring again. And this time, they would not come quietly.
The following morning, gray clouds hung low over the grounds, and the wind carried the smell of rain. Inside the Great Hall, the students' chatter hadn't dimmed. If anything, it was louder than before. Everywhere Oliver went, he caught fragments of his name carried from one mouth to another, a hundred rumors weaving their way through the school.
When he sat down at the Gryffindor table with Harry and Hermione, the stares followed. Ron's voice carried above the noise, aimed squarely in Oliver's direction.
"Of course the Cannons would take him," he muttered to Seamus, though the words were pitched just loud enough for Oliver to hear. "They're desperate enough for anyone."
Harry slammed his cup down, the clatter silencing the space around them. "Ron."
Ron looked up, startled. "What?"
"You're not just saying anything," Harry shot back. "He's our friend, and you don't get to talk about him like that."
Hermione leaned forward, her eyes narrowing. "Honestly, Ron, you should be thrilled. It's your team. You've wanted them to win for years, haven't you? If Oliver gives them a chance, why shouldn't you be happy?"
Ron's ears burned red, and he ducked behind his toast. He didn't apologize, but he didn't argue again either.
Oliver had learned to let remarks slide, but Harry and Hermione's defense struck deeper than Ron's jab ever could. Their loyalty felt like something solid beneath his feet, something to lean on. He gave Harry a small nod of thanks, and Harry returned it with a faint smile before reaching for another helping of eggs.
All through the day, Oliver found himself thinking about what it might mean if Madam Hooch's letter brought a real response. He pictured wearing the Cannons' orange robes, flying out over a professional pitch while the crowd roared. He imagined Ron watching from the stands, torn between envy and pride, and the thought made Oliver's chest tighten with something strange—half nerves, half excitement. He was only eleven, but the dream had already taken hold.
The professors seemed to notice the shift in him, too. McGonagall eyed him with quiet curiosity in Transfiguration when he raised his hand to answer instead of staying silent. Sprout watched him with a touch of admiration when Nyx shadowed him in the greenhouse rafters but never disturbed the plants. Flitwick smiled when Oliver's charmwork rang clear and precise, sharper than it had only weeks before. Even Snape, though he said nothing, let his gaze linger longer than usual whenever Oliver passed through the dungeons.
By evening, Oliver carried his guitar out into the courtyard. The air was cool, the stones damp under his shoes, but the fading sun painted the sky in streaks of orange and purple. He sat on a bench, strummed softly, and let the notes drift into the air.
The courtyard was quiet but not empty. A few students passing through slowed to listen, whispering to each other before moving on. The sound wasn't a performance—it wasn't polished or planned—it was simply for him, a way to make the day settle in his chest.
A shimmer of dark feathers caught the edge of the light, and Nyx appeared, wings folding as she landed gracefully on the head of his guitar. She tilted her head, her sky-blue eyes meeting his, then gave a low, musical chirp that echoed his rhythm. Oliver smiled, adjusted his fingers, and coaxed the melody into something softer. Nyx matched him, a faint trill threading between the strings like an echo. For a while, nothing else mattered.
When he returned inside, Fred and George were waiting at the entrance to the Gryffindor common room.
"There he is," Fred said, throwing an arm around his shoulder."Future Cannon, clear as day," George added with a grin.
Oliver laughed, shaking his head. "You really think so?"
"Think?" Fred said, mock-offended. "We know.""Only question is whether the Cannons are smart enough to see it," George said.
"And when they do," Fred added, "you'll be flying circles around Ron's heroes before long."
Oliver laughed again, this time louder. The twins had a way of brushing away doubt without even trying, and in their confidence, he found himself believing too.
That night, when he settled into his classroom-turned-bedroom, Nyx perched quietly at the foot of his bed. His guitar leaned against the wall, and the steady rhythm of rain against the windows lulled the castle into stillness. For the first time in a long while, Oliver felt something close to contentment.
He had friends who believed in him. A phoenix who had chosen him. A chance—no matter how small—to join something bigger than himself.
But beyond the walls of the castle, things were already shifting. Teachers whispered behind closed doors, owls carried messages late into the night, and the Ministry of Magic was stirring again. The storm hadn't reached him yet, but Oliver could feel it waiting, pressing at the edges of the peace he had found.
For now, though, he let the sound of the rain and the warmth of Nyx's presence carry him into sleep.