The first days back at Hogwarts after the trial felt different in ways Oliver could not easily name. It wasn't that the stone walls looked brighter, or that the enchanted ceiling in the Great Hall had somehow shifted its stars to favor him. No—Hogwarts was the same, ancient and vast. What had changed was the way people looked at him.
The whispers never truly faded. They rose and fell in waves, following him through corridors and staircases, into classrooms and even the library. But they no longer carried the sharp edge of suspicion alone. Some were tinged with awe, others with curiosity, and more than a few with envy.
"He's the one with the black phoenix."
"Did you see how it looked at the Minister? Like it knew he was lying."
"Bet he'll never have to lift a finger again—he'll just let that bird glare people into submission."
Oliver walked through it all with measured steps. At first, he kept his head down, shoulders tense, waiting for the next sneer or cruel laugh. But as the days passed, and as Nyx continued to perch calmly at his side or trail him from above, something inside him loosened. He wasn't invisible anymore. And strangely, he wasn't afraid of that.
At breakfast, the Gryffindor table had become his place. He no longer hesitated to slide into the bench beside Harry and Hermione. Ron's stiff posture and muttered complaints were constant, but Oliver let them roll off his shoulders. Harry was steady, unflinching in his defense. Hermione was sharper, quick to cut down any remark that veered too close to cruelty.
"You don't have to answer him," she said one morning when Ron huffed something about "traitorous snakes" under his breath.
"I wasn't going to," Oliver replied simply, reaching for jam. His tone carried no bitterness, only fact.
Harry grinned, nudging him. "You're getting better at ignoring him than I am."
Ron sputtered into his porridge, but the twins further down the table broke into laughter. "That's our Oliver," Fred said. "Better at ignoring Ron than anyone else in Hogwarts."
"Should win him a medal," George added, raising his goblet.
The tension dissolved into chuckles, and for a moment, the Gryffindor table felt like home.
Not everyone was welcoming, of course. A few Gryffindors still muttered about how strange it was to have a Slytherin eating with them. Seamus in particular seemed torn between fascination and doubt, leaning over Dean one afternoon to whisper, "Do you reckon he'll really stick with us? Or is it all just… strategy?"
Dean shrugged, but Neville shook his head. "Doesn't matter. He's here. That's enough."
Oliver overheard, but instead of shrinking, he found himself oddly grateful. The uncertainty no longer stung as it once had. If Neville could accept him without question, maybe others would too—in time.
In the classrooms, the change was even more pronounced.
Professor Flitwick nearly beamed whenever Oliver entered, his high-pitched voice carrying extra warmth. "Mister Night, excellent wandwork on that levitation charm! Five points to Slytherin." It was not the points that struck Oliver—it was the way Flitwick's eyes lingered, curious and approving, as though he expected Oliver to keep surprising him.
Professor Sprout was subtler but no less kind. She often slipped him extra cuttings after Herbology lessons, muttering something about "seeing what you can make of this at night." Oliver tucked the plants carefully into his satchel, unsure what she expected but touched nonetheless.
McGonagall was the hardest to read. She never smiled, never offered the easy warmth the others did, but her sharp eyes seemed to follow him with greater attention now. When he transfigured a matchstick into a pin, she inclined her head once in approval. No words, no praise, but Oliver caught it, and it stayed with him longer than he admitted.
Snape remained unchanged—or perhaps more precisely, he remained himself. His cutting remarks still came, though not as often. "Mister Night, if you're finished staring at your cauldron as though it might sing back to you, perhaps you'll add the wormwood before the potion curdles." The class laughed, but Snape's eyes flicked once to Nyx, perched by the window, and then back to Oliver. He never deducted points, never lashed out as he did at others. It was not kindness, Oliver knew, but it was something different, something he couldn't name.
Nyx's presence had become part of daily life. Students still stared when she appeared, her black wings trailing faint blue light as she swooped into a classroom to perch near Oliver. But the fear that once hung over those moments had shifted into awe. Ravenclaws whispered about magical theory, sketching diagrams of her plumage in the margins of their notes. Hufflepuffs smiled quietly whenever she trilled during lessons. Even a few Gryffindors admitted, reluctantly, that she was magnificent.
The Slytherins, however, grew sharper. They muttered louder when Oliver passed their table, hissed insults under their breath in the corridors. A second-year sneered, "You think you're one of them now? Eating with Gryffindors, strumming your guitar for Hufflepuffs like a minstrel?" Oliver didn't slow his stride. Nyx tilted her head, eyes gleaming, and the boy faltered, retreating into the shadows with muttered curses.
It wasn't just his music anymore. It was the way Oliver carried himself. He no longer shrank. He no longer apologized for existing. And that made them uneasy.
One evening, after most of the castle had retreated to their common rooms, Oliver sat in a quiet corridor with his guitar. The notes drifted soft and steady, echoing off the cold stone. Nyx perched at the head of the instrument, her talons careful not to scratch, her sky-blue gaze fixed on him. She trilled along, a harmony only he seemed to fully hear.
Footsteps whispered from behind, and when Oliver looked up, he caught sight of a small cluster of Ravenclaws standing at the far end of the hall. They didn't approach, but they lingered, listening. When he shifted to pack up, one of them—an older girl with her hair in a braid—offered him a small nod before they all slipped away.
The warmth lingered long after they had gone.
Days passed in this rhythm, suspicion blending slowly into something else. Not acceptance—not yet. But no longer outright rejection.
It was after one of Snape's evening classes, when the rest of the students were filing out into the cold corridors, that Oliver heard his name.
"Night."
The single word, sharp as a snapped twig, stopped him in his tracks. Snape stood behind his desk, quill poised, eyes unreadable in the dim light.
Oliver turned, Nyx shifting on his shoulder. "Yes, sir?"
Snape studied him for a long moment, quill unmoving. Finally, he spoke, his voice low and deliberate. "Winter break approaches. Will you be returning to that orphanage of yours… or will you remain here at Hogwarts?"
The question landed like a stone in Oliver's chest. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. For a moment, he had no answer.
Snape's eyes flicked once to Nyx, then back. He offered no further explanation, no guidance, only the faintest narrowing of his gaze before he dipped his quill back to parchment.
"You may go."
Oliver left the classroom slowly, the weight of the question pressing down on him with each step. The corridors were quiet, torches flickering as winter winds rattled the windows. Nyx brushed her feathers against his cheek, but for once, he found no comfort in her calm.
The choice loomed ahead, stark and unyielding.
Would he return to the place that had never wanted him, or would he stay in the castle that was slowly, carefully becoming home?
He didn't know yet. But soon, he would have to decide.