Cornelius Fudge's office smelled of burnt parchment and ink. Piles of half-written reports were scattered across his desk, each bearing the same subject line: Oliver D. Night — Phoenix. The boy's name had become a curse in his mind, a blot on his record that refused to fade.
He paced in short, sharp lines, hat in his hands. "First the Flamels," he muttered. "Then Scamander. And now the French and the Americans breathing down my neck. It's a circus. A circus with me in the center."
Dolores Umbridge sat primly in the corner, quill poised, eyes gleaming with satisfaction at his frustration. "Minister, if I may—"
"You may not," Fudge snapped, but then he stopped himself. He needed her cunning, even if her simpering voice grated on him. He waved a hand impatiently. "Go on, Dolores. What brilliant solution have you cooked up this time?"
Her smile widened. "Direct seizure of the phoenix is, as you've said, no longer viable. Too many eyes are watching. Too many foreign Ministries sniffing about. But we needn't seize the creature directly." She tapped the quill against her parchment with a click. "We can instead seize the boy."
Fudge frowned. "The boy?"
"Not physically, of course," Umbridge said sweetly. "Through law. Through precedent. Magical guardianship hearings have long existed for children who appear unstable or unsuited to the responsibility of power. If young Mister Night is deemed… unfit, then the phoenix must, by necessity, be rehomed."
Fudge froze mid-step. Slowly, his lips curled into a smile. "Unfit."
"Exactly," Umbridge said, leaning forward, voice syrupy. "It need not be framed as cruelty. Quite the opposite—we would be seen as responsible. Protecting a child from dangers he cannot possibly understand. Why, it would be positively negligent not to intervene."
Fudge chuckled, the sound brittle. "Yes. Yes, of course. A fitness hearing. Put the burden on the boy. If he falters—" He clapped his hands together. "—we take the phoenix. And no one can say I acted rashly."
Umbridge's eyes glittered. "We will need testimony. Students. Staff. Rumors of favoritism, of instability. That dreadful business about him moving into a classroom instead of his dormitory—that will serve nicely."
Fudge rubbed his hands. "Yes, yes. Excellent. Let them say he's… odd, withdrawn, too peculiar to be trusted. Add in his strange abilities. Merlin's beard, the boy is practically handing us the case."
A cough came from the far end of the office. Percy Weasley, quill poised over a ledger, looked uncomfortable. "Minister, if I might… this could be seen as targeting a child unfairly. The press—"
"The press," Fudge barked, "will print what I tell them to print! Do you understand, boy? You're here to take notes, not to lecture me on appearances."
Percy flushed, scribbling faster. Umbridge's smirk only grew.
Fudge returned to pacing, but his steps were lighter now. "We'll draft the order tonight. A formal summons for a fitness hearing. Let's see how the great Dumbledore explains away a child clearly in over his head."
At Hogwarts, the whispers started before the ink on the order had dried.
Oliver noticed first the owls—more than usual, swooping through the rafters with official-looking letters clutched in their talons. Then he noticed the way professors lowered their voices when he passed, or how they seemed to look at him a moment too long, as if measuring something they couldn't quite name.
By lunch, even students had begun murmuring.
"Another owl for the Headmaster.""Bet it's about the phoenix again.""Think they'll take it away this time?"
Oliver forced himself not to react, but each word prickled. He sat at the Gryffindor table, guitar slung over his back, Nyx perched on the bench beside him, her feathers sleek and watchful. She leaned close, brushing his arm with the edge of her wing, as though she sensed his unease.
Harry nudged him. "Ignore them. They don't know what they're talking about."
Hermione nodded firmly. "If the Ministry tries something, Dumbledore won't let them. And neither will the Flamels. You're not alone in this, Oliver."
Fred leaned across the table with a grin. "If they think they can just waltz in and take your bird, they've got another thing coming. We'll hex their shoes to the ceiling before they get near her."
George added, "Or better yet, we'll make them think they've taken Nyx when really it's a chicken painted black."
Oliver managed a laugh, but it felt thin. "Thanks, guys."
Inside, though, the laughter didn't settle the unease. Something was coming. He could feel it.
That evening, he found himself in Dumbledore's office. The Headmaster sat calmly behind his desk, but the parchment in his hands made Oliver's stomach twist.
"It is as we expected," Dumbledore said gently. "The Ministry has ordered a fitness hearing. They will attempt to argue that you are not ready for the responsibility of such a bond."
Oliver swallowed. "And if they win?"
Dumbledore's eyes softened, but his voice was steady. "They will not. But if they did, they would attempt to separate you from Nyx."
Nyx gave a low, dangerous cry from her perch, her sky-blue eyes flashing.
Oliver clenched his fists. "They can't."
"No," Dumbledore agreed. "They cannot. Not truly. The bond between you and Nyx is deeper than law. Still, we must prepare. Appearances matter in these proceedings."
He leaned forward, voice low and kind. "Oliver, do not be afraid. You will not stand alone. I will speak for you. So will Professor McGonagall, and Madam Hooch, and others besides. The Flamels and the Scamanders are already preparing their testimony. The Ministry may rattle its chains, but we are not without strength."
Oliver met Nyx's eyes. For the first time, he saw not just fire but something steadier there—trust. She chirped softly, and the sound eased something inside him.
"All right," he said quietly. "Then we'll fight."
Dumbledore's smile was faint but proud. "That is all I ask."
The castle seemed quieter after Oliver left Dumbledore's office, though he knew it was only his imagination. Every whisper in the corridors felt sharper, every glance heavier. He kept walking, Nyx perched like a shadow on his shoulder, her feathers brushing his cheek whenever he drifted too close to doubt.
The news spread faster than fire. By breakfast the next morning, the whole school seemed to know about the hearing. Clusters of students leaned together, eyes darting toward Oliver whenever he entered the Great Hall.
"Fitness hearing.""They're saying he's unstable.""Imagine—an eleven-year-old on trial."
Oliver slid into his usual seat near Harry and Hermione. He kept his head low, spooning porridge he couldn't taste. Nyx shifted on the bench beside him, her gaze scanning the hall like a sentry.
Harry leaned in. "Ignore them. They don't matter."
Hermione set her book down with a snap. "It's disgraceful. They're treating you like a criminal for something that isn't even wrong. A bond with a phoenix isn't dangerous—it's extraordinary."
Ron grumbled into his toast, not looking at Oliver. "Maybe extraordinary's the problem. People don't like what they don't understand."
Hermione shot him a glare so sharp it could've cut butter. "That doesn't make it right."
Fred and George, further down, caught Oliver's eye and raised their goblets in exaggerated cheers. George called, "Don't look so grim, Night! First hearing of the century—make sure you smile for the cameras!"
Fred added, "We'll sell autographs if you win. Split the profits with you, promise."
Oliver chuckled despite himself. The tension in his chest eased for a moment, just long enough for him to notice something new: he wasn't shrinking from the stares anymore. The whispers still hurt, but less like knives and more like background noise. He realized, with some surprise, that he wasn't alone in this. Not anymore.
Classes dragged by in a haze. In Charms, his wand felt heavier in his hand, and when Professor Flitwick asked him to demonstrate a simple levitation, his voice wavered at first. But Nyx, perched on the edge of his desk, trilled a quiet note, and Oliver steadied. The feather rose cleanly into the air, smooth and controlled.
"Excellent, Mister Night!" Flitwick said, clapping his tiny hands together. "Control under pressure—remarkable."
The other students murmured, some impressed, others skeptical. Oliver felt their eyes but held his chin high.
In Herbology, Professor Sprout made no mention of the hearing, but she let Nyx stay perched among the vines, unbothered by her presence. The phoenix seemed to hum with the plants, as though sharing some secret rhythm. It calmed Oliver, and his hands were steady as he trimmed roots and stirred soil.
Everywhere he went, Nyx followed. If students whispered too loudly, her feathers flared just enough to silence them. If someone stared too long, her sky-blue eyes fixed on theirs until they looked away. She didn't screech or lash out—she didn't need to. Her presence alone made it clear: Oliver was not defenseless.
That evening, as Oliver practiced guitar in his hidden classroom, the strings soft beneath his fingertips, he heard the faint flutter of wings. An owl swooped through the cracked window, official parchment tied to its leg.
His stomach dropped.
He untied the scroll, hands trembling. Nyx ruffled her feathers, eyes glowing faintly as though she, too, sensed the weight of it.
The seal broke with a snap. The words inside were crisp and merciless:
By order of the Ministry of Magic, a hearing is hereby convened to assess the fitness of Oliver D. Night in relation to the guardianship of the magical creature known as Phoenix (undocumented species). Said hearing will take place in Courtroom Ten at the Ministry of Magic. Attendance is mandatory.
Oliver's hands shook as he lowered the parchment. Nyx hopped closer, pressing her head gently against his arm. Her warmth steadied him, grounding him in the moment.
He whispered, almost to himself, "They really mean to take you away."
Nyx chirped softly, a sound that resonated in his chest. The fear inside him wavered, then broke.
"No," Oliver said, louder this time. He met her eyes, the sky-blue glow reflecting in his own. "They won't. Not while I can fight."
He folded the parchment carefully, slid it onto the desk, and picked up his guitar again. The strings thrummed beneath his fingers, stronger now, the melody sharper. Nyx trilled along, her voice weaving with the music until the walls of the classroom hummed with it.
The summons lay untouched on the desk, but Oliver no longer stared at it with dread. He had a hearing ahead, yes. He had the Ministry, Fudge, and half the wizarding world against him. But he also had something they didn't—friends who believed in him, mentors preparing to stand for him, and a phoenix who had chosen him above all others.
For the first time since the whispers began, Oliver felt ready.