When the gavel struck again, the chamber fell silent. Wizengamot members shuffled back into their seats, quills poised once more in the reporters' gallery, and the heavy doors boomed shut behind the last of the stragglers. Oliver's heart drummed in his ears, but Nyx perched steady on the chair's arm, her presence grounding him.
"Court resumes," the presiding witch announced. "Minister Fudge, you may continue."
Fudge adjusted his bowler, nodding graciously. "Thank you, Madam Chair. We've heard much already, haven't we? Glowing accounts, heartfelt defenses." He let his voice carry, its warmth a mask for the steel beneath. "But the question remains: is affection proof of fitness? Is admiration proof of stability? Or must we dig deeper?"
He glanced to the benches, his eyes glinting. "Madam Umbridge, if you would."
Dolores Umbridge rose, pink robes rustling like a sugar-dusted curtain. She minced to the center of the floor, her toadlike smile spreading as though she addressed children in a classroom rather than the highest court in wizarding Britain.
"Honored Wizengamot," she began, her voice syrupy sweet, "I too care deeply for the welfare of our young witches and wizards. And I think we all agree that Mister Night is a remarkable child. Talented, yes. Gifted, undeniably. But let us not confuse remarkable with responsible."
A few approving murmurs echoed through the chamber. Umbridge's smile widened.
"Consider what we've been told: he has extraordinary memory, far beyond his age. He demonstrates metamorphic abilities, rare and unpredictable. He even channels magic through his eyes—an ability unrecorded in our annals." She let her quill tap the parchment in her hand. "These are not the traits of an ordinary boy. They are… irregularities. Signs of instability. And when combined with his bond to a phoenix of undocumented species—why, the risk grows immeasurable."
Oliver's stomach tightened. He wanted to shout, That doesn't make me unstable, but Nyx pressed against him, her feathers warm. He bit his tongue.
Umbridge's voice softened, dripping sympathy. "I do not blame the child. He is not at fault. But what child could bear such burdens without faltering? What child should be asked to?"
A witch in the Wizengamot nodded gravely. Another leaned toward her neighbor, whispering. The air grew heavy with unease.
"And let us not forget," Umbridge continued, "that he is still untested. Still learning. We do not condemn him—we protect him. Protect him from expectations too great, and from powers too dangerous." She clasped her hands piously. "Is it not kinder to place him under supervision, to guide him, to relieve him of this crushing weight before it destroys him?"
The chamber buzzed. Some nodded, clearly swayed. Others frowned, unconvinced. Reporters scribbled furiously, quills scratching like beetles on parchment.
Oliver clenched his fists, heat rising in his chest. He was tired of being spoken about, as if he weren't sitting right there.
"May I?" Dumbledore's calm voice cut through the murmur. He rose, tall and steady, and inclined his head to the chair.
The presiding witch nodded. "You may."
Dumbledore stepped forward, eyes sweeping the chamber. "Madam Umbridge speaks eloquently, but eloquence is not truth. Yes, Oliver has unusual gifts. Yes, his bond with Nyx is unprecedented. But since when has giftedness been grounds for suspicion? Do we accuse prodigies of unfitness? Do we punish children for what they are born with?"
He paused, letting the words settle. "This is not about instability. This is about fear. Fear of what is different. Fear of what cannot be controlled by the Ministry's quill and ink. But fear, honorable members, is not evidence."
A hum of approval rippled through parts of the gallery.
Fudge's face pinched, but Dumbledore pressed on. "Mister Night has demonstrated discipline in his studies, kindness in his actions, and restraint through his phoenix. That is not instability. That is character. And character, not conformity, is the true measure of fitness."
Oliver's chest swelled. For once, he wasn't shrinking into the chair. He sat straighter, Nyx lifting her head proudly beside him.
Before the murmurs could fade, Nicolas Flamel rose, his golden robes catching the torchlight. His voice, though quiet, carried weight born of centuries. "I will add this. In my long life, I have seen many talents, many children. Gifts often overwhelm them—unless they are anchored. Oliver is anchored. By his music, by his companions, by this bond. He is not unraveling. He is becoming."
Every word sank into the chamber like lead into water. Even some who had leaned forward eagerly at Umbridge's words now shifted back, uneasy with their own doubts.
Fudge forced a laugh, though it rang hollow. "Powerful words, certainly. But words do not erase risk. Words do not erase unpredictability. And when unpredictability meets danger—disaster follows." He slammed a hand on the podium. "We need proof. Proof that this bond is truly stable. Proof that this boy is not a danger to himself and others."
His eyes gleamed as he turned to the chair. "And so, I submit this motion: let the phoenix be summoned here, before this Wizengamot. Let us see with our own eyes whether it can be controlled."
Gasps rippled through the chamber. Reporters nearly fell over themselves to scrawl faster. Even some Wizengamot members leaned forward, intrigued.
Oliver's heart lurched. Nyx's feathers bristled, a faint hum of power building in her throat.
Dumbledore's eyes narrowed. "Minister, this is a dangerous precedent. To summon a bonded creature into such a hostile chamber is not only cruel—it is reckless."
"Reckless?" Fudge sneered. "Or necessary? If the boy and bird are as stable as you claim, what harm could it do?"
The chamber erupted into voices, overlapping arguments and counter-arguments, until the gavel struck three times, demanding silence.
"Motion received," the chairwoman said. "It will be deliberated."
Oliver sat frozen, Nyx pressing close, her sky-blue gaze locked on his. For the first time, he didn't see fear reflected there—only trust.
He swallowed hard, straightened his shoulders, and whispered, "We'll show them."
Nyx trilled softly, as though answering: Yes. We will.
The chamber buzzed with unrest. The air seemed to crackle as voices overlapped, echoing off the stone walls—some for, some against, but all too loud. Oliver sat in the center, Nyx pressed against him, her feathers raised ever so slightly. Her presence grounded him, yet the weight of so many eyes pressed heavy.
Dumbledore lifted his hand, his calm enough to quiet half the chamber. "Minister Fudge's motion is not without risk. To summon a phoenix into a hostile chamber, surrounded by suspicion and fear, is to invite tension. And tension, honored members, can ignite faster than flame. Are we truly prepared to test a bond in such conditions?"
A Wizengamot elder leaned forward, her lined face shadowed under the torchlight. "And yet, Headmaster, we cannot rule without evidence. The Minister is not wrong—words are persuasive, but words alone cannot prove stability."
Umbridge's simper returned. "Exactly, Madam Elder. We are not cruel. We are cautious. The boy himself should wish to prove his bond, should he not?" She turned her saccharine smile toward Oliver, tilting her head. "Tell us, Mister Night, would you not want the world to see what you and your bird truly are?"
Every gaze shifted.
Oliver froze, his throat dry. He felt the old instinct—to shrink, to let someone else speak—but then Nyx pressed her head against his cheek, sky-blue eyes meeting his. There was no fear in her, only expectation. Speak.
He rose slowly from the chair, shackles clinking though unused. His voice cracked on the first word but steadied after. "You keep talking about me like I'm not here. Like I don't know what I can handle. But I'm not broken. I'm not dangerous. And Nyx isn't either."
A ripple of surprise swept the chamber.
Oliver swallowed, forcing himself to go on. "You say I isolate myself. You don't say why. I didn't want fights. I wanted peace. You say Nyx intimidates people. You don't say she's never hurt anyone. Not once. You say I'm unfit because I'm different. But maybe being different isn't a curse. Maybe it's the reason she chose me."
The words hung heavy in the air.
For once, even the reporters' quills stilled.
Umbridge's smile faltered, but she quickly smoothed it back into place. "Such passion," she crooned, though her eyes narrowed. "But passion is not proof. Surely you understand, dear boy, that feelings cannot outweigh facts."
Oliver clenched his fists. "Then see the facts. Bring Nyx. But don't twist it. Don't pretend it proves your story when it'll prove mine."
Gasps echoed, louder this time. Fudge blinked, caught off guard by the boy's defiance. For a fleeting moment, he looked rattled—but his bluster returned quickly. "You see? Even the boy admits it. Let the phoenix appear, and the truth will out."
Dumbledore's eyes softened on Oliver, the faintest trace of pride in their depth. Nicolas Flamel leaned back, lips curling into a ghost of a smile, whispering something inaudible to Perenelle, who nodded slowly.
The presiding witch struck the gavel, cutting through the noise. "The matter is clear. A vote will be taken. All in favor of summoning the phoenix for inspection, raise your hands."
Hands rose across the benches, more than Oliver wanted to count. His stomach twisted.
"All opposed?"
Fewer, but still some, lifted their hands—Dumbledore, McGonagall, the Flamels among them. Their resistance was strong but not enough.
The chairwoman's voice rang through the chamber. "The motion carries. The phoenix will be summoned into this courtroom at the next session."
The chamber erupted—some in approval, others in outrage, reporters already sprinting for the doors to send dispatches. Oliver sank back into his chair, Nyx shifting uneasily on the armrest, feathers ruffling.
He pressed a hand gently to her side. "It's all right," he whispered, more to himself than to her. "We'll show them."
Nyx trilled low, the sound resonating in his chest.
And though fear still coiled within him, Oliver felt something else rise stronger: resolve.
The storm was coming, but he was ready to face it.