The return to Hogwarts was nothing like Oliver expected.
He thought perhaps there would be silence, or a handful of polite nods, maybe even a shrug from the students who always seemed eager to move on to the next whisper. But Hogwarts was alive with chatter. From the moment he stepped back into the Great Hall, whispers trailed him like shadows, weaving between benches and bouncing off the vaulted ceiling.
"That's him—the one with the phoenix."
"He stood up to the Minister—looked Fudge right in the eye, I heard."
"No one's ever seen a phoenix like that before."
Oliver carried himself carefully, back straight, chin level, even as his stomach twisted with unease. He had stood before the Ministry and not bent, but this—being watched, being weighed by hundreds of young eyes—felt heavier in its own way. Nyx perched on his shoulder, her dark feathers catching the torchlight, her sky-blue gaze cool and calm. She gave a soft trill, low and reassuring, and the whispers softened, though they never truly stopped.
He sat at the Gryffindor table without hesitation, sliding into the seat near Harry and Hermione. Ron was on Harry's other side, shoulders stiff, his lips pressed into a thin line.
"Morning, Oliver," Harry said, his voice carrying a warmth that made Oliver's chest loosen. "You all right?"
Oliver nodded, setting his satchel down. "Better than I thought I'd be."
Ron snorted into his pumpkin juice. "Better than you thought? You mean better than you deserve."
The words landed like a slap, but Oliver refused to turn. He let them slide, choosing instead to butter a piece of toast. Hermione's eyes narrowed.
"Honestly, Ron," she snapped. "If you can't say something useful, don't say anything at all."
Harry's glare joined hers, sharp and unflinching. "Drop it. He's my friend. If you don't like that, that's your problem."
Ron muttered something into his plate, cheeks red, but he didn't push further. For Oliver, the sting was still there, but Harry's defense dulled it, and Hermione's steady presence across the table made it easier to breathe. He wasn't used to people standing up for him.
The rest of the Gryffindors were mixed. Seamus leaned across Dean to whisper, "Blimey, d'you think it's true he made the Minister look like a fool?" Dean shrugged, eyes flicking curiously to Oliver before looking away. Neville offered a small smile when Oliver glanced his way, the kind that said without words, you're not alone.
None of them told him to leave. And that was enough.
The Slytherin table was another story.
Oliver felt their eyes as he passed the dungeons later that day. Some sneered openly, others whispered behind their palms. A few just stared, as though he were something to be studied and dismantled.
"You've embarrassed us enough, Night," one boy hissed as Oliver brushed past. "Parading around with a bird like that, sitting with Gryffindors like you're one of them. You'll get what's coming."
Oliver paused, Nyx shifting on his shoulder. He looked at the boy—calm, unflinching, his voice even. "If you're waiting for me to be sorry, you'll be waiting a long time."
Another voice joined in from deeper in the corridor. "You think you're better than us, don't you? Hiding behind that bird and your little Gryffindor friends. Just wait until the right people hear about how you're living in a classroom like a prince while the rest of us share dorms."
Oliver turned his head slightly. "If I'm living better, maybe it's because I don't waste time sneering at people who never did me harm."
The boys faltered, clearly expecting anger or retreat, not simple dismissal. Oliver kept walking. Behind him, the whispers grew sharper, but none followed him.
Later, in the courtyard, Oliver strummed his guitar quietly, sitting on a low stone wall dusted with frost. The tune was soft, not a performance, just a rhythm to keep his hands busy while Nyx rested with her head against his shoulder.
Students trickled past, some slowing to listen, others pretending not to. A Ravenclaw boy stood for several minutes before moving on, his face thoughtful. A pair of Hufflepuff girls lingered longer, whispering to each other about how beautiful Nyx's feathers looked in the pale sunlight.
"Do you think she really came from the stars?" one asked.
"Don't be daft," the other whispered back, though her eyes never left the shimmer of Nyx's wings.
Oliver caught fragments of their words but didn't let on. He focused on the strings, letting the notes ripple through the cold air, steady and sure. Nyx gave a soft hum, low enough that only he could truly feel it, vibrating through his shoulder into his chest.
More Ravenclaws gathered near the archway, books tucked under their arms, pretending to discuss homework while sneaking glances his way. A Hufflepuff boy sat on a nearby bench, chin propped in his hand, watching openly with quiet admiration. For once, Oliver didn't feel like shrinking under their stares. He played on.
He didn't notice Draco at first. The Slytherin heir stood under the shadow of another archway, arms crossed, face carefully blank. He watched the way Oliver played without seeking attention, the way Nyx seemed to hum along, the way students from every house paused to take notice despite themselves.
For Draco, it was unsettling. Everything he'd been taught said that Muggle-borns had no place in greatness. And yet—Nyx had chosen Oliver. Not him, not anyone else. A creature older than their house lineages, purer than the oldest names, had bonded with this boy.
He thought back to his father's words over summer: blood is the truest measure of worth, Draco. Never forget it. But now, here in the courtyard, Draco wasn't sure.
When Oliver shifted, setting the guitar aside to adjust the strap of his satchel, Nyx fluttered her wings once, scattering flecks of light across the stone. The small crowd of Ravenclaws gasped softly. Draco's chest tightened with something he didn't want to name.
Later, in the quiet of his dormitory, Draco penned a letter to his father.
Father, I urge you to reconsider how far this has gone. The Ministry made itself a fool trying to seize something that does not belong to them, and the boy proved himself beyond doubt. If a phoenix can choose him, then perhaps blood is not the measure we thought it was. Surely a bond like this is worth cultivating, not crushing. I know you want strength for our house. I think, perhaps, Oliver D. Night is not an enemy, but an asset.
He paused, quill hovering, then added, If we push him too far, we risk losing someone who could one day be very important.
Draco sealed the letter before he could regret it. To himself, he justified it neatly: this was not admiration, not sympathy. It was strategy. And yet, as his quill left the parchment, he felt a flicker of something more complicated—a curiosity he could not easily dismiss.
The frost outside the window glimmered in the moonlight, and for the first time, Draco Malfoy wondered if perhaps his father was wrong.