The morning of the hearing came heavy with silence.
Oliver sat on the edge of his bed in the converted classroom, guitar leaning against the wall, Nyx perched on the chair beside him. The parchment with the Ministry seal lay on the desk, its words burned into his mind. Fitness hearing. Guardianship. Mandatory attendance.
He had read it a dozen times already, but it never felt real until this moment, with the dawn light streaking the floorboards and his satchel packed by his feet. He smoothed a hand over the strap, fingers trembling.
Nyx tilted her head, watching him closely. Her feathers shimmered faintly in the pale light, the blue tips catching fire as she shifted. She gave a low trill, soft but steady, and Oliver drew in a breath.
"I'm not scared," he said, though his voice wavered. "Not really. I just…" He trailed off, pressing his palms together. "I don't want them to look at me like I'm broken. Like I don't belong."
Nyx leaned closer, brushing her head against his shoulder. Warmth radiated through him, not just physical but deeper—like an anchor settling in his chest. The fear didn't vanish, but it no longer felt like it was swallowing him whole.
A knock came at the door.
"Oliver?" Hermione's voice. "We're coming in."
He rose quickly, straightening his robes as Harry, Hermione, and the twins entered. Hagrid squeezed in behind them, his presence filling the room with a solidity that made Oliver's throat tighten.
Harry gave a nervous grin. "Thought you could use some company."
Hermione's eyes softened when she saw the packed satchel. "You don't have to face this alone, you know."
Fred draped an arm around Oliver's shoulders. "If they try anything funny, George and I will turn their wigs into fireworks."
"Not that they wear wigs," George said. "But they should."
Oliver chuckled, the sound breaking through the weight pressing down on him. "Thanks. Really."
Hagrid crouched slightly, his beetle-black eyes warm. "Don' you worry, Oliver. Courtrooms can sound scarier than they are. Jus' speak plain, speak true, and ye'll be fine. And Nyx'll be right there with yeh."
Nyx gave a sharp cry, as if to confirm it. The twins jumped back, then laughed nervously.
Hermione stepped closer, her voice quiet but firm. "They'll try to make you doubt yourself. Don't let them. You've worked too hard, and you've shown too much, for anyone to call you unfit."
Oliver looked at them all—their faces expectant, worried, hopeful—and nodded. "I'll do my best."
The journey to the Ministry was unlike anything Oliver had experienced.
Professor McGonagall met him at the entrance hall with her usual briskness, but her eyes lingered on him longer than usual, soft with something like worry. "Stay close," she instructed. "No wandering."
He followed her and Dumbledore down to the carriages, Nyx gliding silently above them. The castle loomed behind, its turrets piercing the gray sky, and Oliver felt the weight of leaving it—if only for a day. Hogwarts had become his refuge. The Ministry was unknown, hostile ground.
The carriage rattled over cobblestones, then stopped before the gates. From there, they used the Floo Network, green fire swallowing Oliver whole before he stumbled out into a marble atrium so vast it made him dizzy.
Golden statues of witches, wizards, and magical creatures rose in the center, their reflections shimmering in the polished floor. Workers bustled everywhere, robes swishing, voices echoing. For a moment, Oliver wanted to shrink into the shadows. He was only eleven, surrounded by adults who looked like they had already judged him guilty.
Dumbledore's hand on his shoulder steadied him. "Breathe, Oliver. The Ministry thrives on appearances. Let them see you walk with your head high."
Oliver swallowed hard and nodded. He adjusted his satchel, tightened his grip on his wand, and forced himself to stand straighter. Nyx circled above, her presence undeniable, drawing every pair of eyes in the atrium. Whispers rippled outward like waves.
"Is that—?""The phoenix.""By Merlin, it's real."
Some looked in awe. Others in suspicion. A few in outright envy.
Oliver kept walking.
Courtroom Ten was colder than he expected. Stone walls rose high above, the ceiling lost in shadow. A semi-circle of high-backed chairs formed the Wizengamot, their occupants already in place, robes deep purple, eyes watchful. Families filled the gallery beyond, pure-blood crests stitched into expensive cloaks. Reporters jotted notes furiously, quills scratching like insects.
At the center of it all, a single chair waited. Shackles hung from its arms, gleaming dully in the torchlight.
Oliver's steps faltered.
McGonagall's voice was sharp at his side. "Absolutely not. He is not a criminal."
Dumbledore's tone was mild, but firm. "The chains will not be used. He will sit, nothing more."
Fudge, already at his podium, huffed impatiently. "Protocol, Headmaster. It is a courtroom, not a classroom."
"Then treat it as such," Dumbledore replied, his eyes twinkling, though his voice carried steel. "He will not be chained."
Reluctantly, the auror stationed by the chair stepped back.
Oliver sat, heart pounding. Nyx landed on the armrest, curling her talons delicately around the wood. Her sky-blue eyes swept the chamber, daring anyone to challenge her place there.
A gavel struck.
"The hearing of Oliver D. Night, in relation to the guardianship of the phoenix known as Nyx, is hereby called to order," intoned a witch at the center of the Wizengamot.
Fudge straightened, adjusting his hat. His voice carried false warmth, but his eyes gleamed with calculation.
"Honored members of the Wizengamot," he began, "we gather today not out of cruelty, but out of duty. The matter before us is not whether young Mister Night is guilty of wrongdoing, but whether he is fit—fit to hold guardianship over a creature so rare, so powerful, that the safety of our world may hang upon it."
He paused, letting the murmurs ripple.
"We must ask ourselves: can a child, barely past his first year at Hogwarts, truly grasp the responsibility of such a bond? Can one so young control powers he does not yet understand?"
His gaze flicked to Oliver, lingering with feigned pity. "It is not a question of punishment. It is a question of protection. For the boy, and for us all."
The gallery buzzed with approval, some nodding, others murmuring agreement. Oliver felt his throat tighten, but Nyx pressed closer, her warmth anchoring him.
Across the chamber, Dumbledore's expression remained calm, unreadable. The Flamels and the Scamanders, seated among the witnesses, leaned forward, eyes sharp and waiting.
The gavel struck again. "The Minister has spoken. The floor will now open for evidence."
Oliver gripped the arm of his chair, steadying his breath. The trial had begun.
The gavel's echo faded into the cold air, and Fudge wasted no time stepping forward. He adjusted his green bowler hat, cleared his throat, and raised his voice for all the chamber to hear.
"Evidence, then," he said. "Let us begin with the facts. The boy before us is only eleven years old. Eleven! A child scarcely capable of controlling his wand, let alone a phoenix of unknown origin."
He tapped the parchment in his hands. "Reports from within Hogwarts itself suggest troubling patterns. He isolates himself from his peers, refusing to share quarters with his housemates. He resides in an unused classroom, unsupervised." He let that sink in before continuing. "Furthermore, his phoenix has been witnessed prowling the castle, intimidating students, and disrupting the natural order of things. This is not speculation—this is testimony we are prepared to hear."
A ripple of murmurs spread through the gallery. Some nodded, satisfied; others whispered in unease.
Oliver sat stiffly, fingers gripping the arms of his chair. He wanted to shout that he hadn't chosen to isolate himself, that Slytherin had driven him out—but his throat tightened. Nyx shifted on the armrest, her feathers flaring as if to remind him he wasn't voiceless.
Fudge smiled faintly, feigned kindness painted across his features. "I do not say these things to vilify the boy. No, far from it. I say them because we must ask ourselves whether this arrangement is safe. Whether the child's unusual circumstances have left him unstable, unfit to carry the weight of such responsibility."
He stepped back, gesturing to the gallery. "Let us hear from those who have seen him firsthand."
A figure rose from the benches—Lucius Malfoy, silver hair gleaming, cane tapping lightly as he descended to the floor. His voice was smooth, cultured, and cutting.
"Honored Wizengamot," Lucius began, inclining his head. "I speak not out of malice, but out of concern for all wizardkind. My own son attends Hogwarts. He has witnessed the boy's… eccentricities. Strange music echoing through the halls at night. The phoenix roaming unchecked. Favoritism from certain staff members." He paused, eyes narrowing. "It is not the child's fault, perhaps. But is it wise to entrust such power to one so young? Or to allow a creature of this magnitude to remain bonded outside Ministry oversight?"
The gallery buzzed. Some leaned forward eagerly, others frowned in thought. Lucius returned to his seat with deliberate grace.
Dumbledore rose slowly, the rustle of his robes drawing every eye. His expression was calm, but his voice carried a quiet authority that cut through the noise.
"Honored members, let us remember the truth beneath these words. Mister Night did not seek out the phoenix. The phoenix chose him. Those of us with long memories recall that such bonds are not forced—they are forged in will, in spirit, in something beyond law. To separate them would not be prudent. It would be cruel."
He gestured to Oliver, who sat straighter under the weight of his gaze. "As for isolation, it was not born of arrogance but necessity. When his housemates turned against him, he made a choice: solitude over conflict. Is that instability? Or is that wisdom? A boy who avoids harm rather than inflicts it?"
A murmur of agreement swept the gallery.
Fudge's smile tightened. "And what of the phoenix's behavior? What of intimidation? What of the disruption it has caused?"
Before Dumbledore could reply, a small figure stepped forward—Professor McGonagall. Her presence drew instant silence.
"I will speak to that," she said crisply. "The creature has never once harmed a student. It has shown restraint unmatched by any magical beast I have studied. When provoked, it responded not with violence but with warning. And when Mister Night works, it stays by his side, controlled, protective, and calm. If that is disruption, I should like to see more of it in our halls."
Her words earned a ripple of laughter from the gallery, breaking the tension briefly.
Oliver's chest loosened. He hadn't realized how tightly he had been holding his breath until now. McGonagall glanced his way as she returned to her seat, the faintest of nods telling him she believed in him.
Fudge's expression soured, but he pressed on. "Very well. But let us not rely solely on sentiment. Where is the evidence of discipline? Where is the proof that the boy can control himself as well as the creature?"
At that, Flitwick rose, standing barely taller than the podium. "If it is discipline you seek, Minister, I will gladly speak to it. Mister Night has excelled in Charms beyond expectation. He has demonstrated creativity, precision, and, most importantly, control. His work has been a credit to Hogwarts. I do not say this lightly—he is one of the finest first-years I have taught."
Another wave of murmurs, louder this time. Quills scratched furiously in the reporters' gallery.
Fudge tugged at his collar, but his voice remained smooth. "We shall see if these glowing accounts stand against the evidence to come."
Oliver shifted, his throat dry. He wanted to speak, to stand, to defend himself—but the gavel struck again, signaling a recess.
"Proceedings will resume in one hour," the witch in the center announced. "We will reconvene to hear further testimony."
The Wizengamot began to rise, their robes swishing as conversations broke out in earnest. Some glanced at Oliver with pity, others with suspicion, but a few—just a few—looked at him with something else entirely: curiosity.
Oliver sat back, Nyx pressing against him, her warmth grounding him as the chamber buzzed. The trial had only just begun, but already the lines were being drawn. Fudge had allies, yes. But Oliver had champions of his own.
And when the gavel struck again, he swore he would find his voice.