Snow had begun to gather along the windowsills of the castle by the time the owls swooped in. Their wings sent flurries of frost-dusted feathers across the Great Hall, the morning chatter dimming as students reached up for letters and packages from home. Oliver, sitting in his usual place beside Harry and Hermione, didn't expect anything.
He never did.
So when a sleek brown owl dipped low and dropped two envelopes directly onto his plate—nearly toppling his goblet of pumpkin juice—he froze.
"Two letters?" Harry asked, eyebrows rising.
Ron, further down the table, muttered, "Probably both complaints."
Hermione shot him a glare sharp enough to silence him before glancing back at Oliver. "Well, go on. Aren't you going to open them?"
Oliver's hands were slow to move. Nyx tilted her head from her perch on the bench behind him, eyes sky-blue and steady. Her feathers shimmered faintly in the torchlight, a reminder that even in the noise and chaos of the Hall, he was not alone.
The first envelope bore thick, elegant script: Mister Oliver D. Night. The seal was golden, pressed with a sigil of a philosopher's stone surrounded by an intricate alchemical circle. His breath caught.
The Flamels.
With care, he broke the seal and unfolded the parchment. The handwriting was delicate, every letter steady, as though written with purpose rather than haste.
My dear Oliver,
Nicolas and I hope this letter finds you in good health after the trial. We have thought of you often, especially in light of what transpired with the Ministry. You showed courage beyond your years, and it has not gone unnoticed.
As winter draws near, we wondered if you might like to spend the holidays with us in France. Our home is always open to you, not as a guest, but as family. We would be honored to host you, to give you warmth, music, and perhaps a little peace after such a turbulent term.
Whatever your answer, know that we think of you fondly.
Yours sincerely,
Perenelle Flamel
Oliver lowered the parchment slowly, his chest tight. Family. The word struck deeper than he cared to admit.
Hermione leaned closer. "The Flamels? As in… Nicolas and Perenelle Flamel?"
He nodded mutely, setting the letter down with trembling fingers.
The second envelope was plainer, sealed with deep green wax. Inside was a shorter note, the handwriting less neat but no less heartfelt.
Dear Oliver,
Tina and I have also been following your story with great interest. I admit, it's not every day one hears of a phoenix choosing so young a companion. We would be delighted if you considered spending Christmas with us instead.
(Between ourselves, Perenelle suspects I only want to meet Nyx. She may not be entirely wrong.)
Whatever your decision, know that you have our support.
Yours,
Newt Scamander
Oliver gave a short, breathless laugh at the parenthetical aside. It was the first sound he'd made since the letters arrived.
Harry leaned forward. "Both of them want you to visit? That's incredible!"
Hermione's eyes sparkled with genuine joy. "It means they see something in you. They wouldn't invite just anyone."
Ron grumbled into his toast, "More like they want his pet."
But Oliver barely heard him. His eyes lingered on the word family until it blurred on the parchment.
—
Later that day, Oliver found himself alone in a quiet corridor, guitar resting on his knee. His fingers moved slowly across the strings, pulling out a gentle tune more thoughtful than bright. Nyx perched at the head of the guitar, talons careful, eyes half-lidded as she hummed along with a resonance that vibrated against his chest.
The letters weighed heavily in his satchel.
He pictured the Flamels' home, warm and filled with laughter, where he wouldn't be a guest but a part of something whole. He imagined Newt's cluttered study, animals tucked in corners, Tina offering tea while he talked about Nyx with the same excitement Oliver felt when strumming a new song.
And then, like a shadow, he imagined the orphanage. Cold. Loud. The music teacher was the only light in that place, but even she could not erase the weight of being unwanted.
Hogwarts itself felt like home—but winter meant choices. And for the first time, he had more than one.
"Which do I choose, Nyx?" he murmured.
The phoenix tilted her head, brushing her feathers against his cheek, a soft trill vibrating through him. She didn't answer, not with words, but the comfort was enough.
—
When the summons to Dumbledore's office arrived, Oliver wasn't surprised.
The Headmaster's chambers were warm against the chill of the castle, golden light from the hearth throwing long shadows. The walls were lined with strange instruments, their whirs and clicks creating a gentle background hum.
For the first time since Oliver had begun attending Hogwarts, Fawkes was present.
The scarlet-and-gold phoenix perched proudly near the desk, feathers gleaming like fire caught in motion. His eyes, deep and ancient, fixed on Oliver with calm curiosity.
Oliver stopped short, his breath catching. He had seen Nyx appear in starlit fire, her dark wings scattered with faint blue. But Fawkes was different—older, heavier with centuries of wisdom.
Nyx materialized a moment later in her usual shimmer of galaxy-blue flame, a tear of starlight in the air. She landed gracefully beside Oliver, wings folding neatly as her eyes locked with Fawkes's.
The room went silent. Even the ticking instruments seemed to pause.
The two phoenixes circled each other, their movements slow, deliberate. Fawkes gave a single, echoing trill, deep and resonant. Nyx answered with a higher note, sharp but not hostile, like the ringing edge of a bell.
Oliver held his breath. Dumbledore stood still, his hands folded before him, eyes gleaming with an unreadable light.
Finally, the two phoenixes drew close. Their beaks touched briefly, a gesture of acknowledgement, before they trilled together, the sound harmonizing into a note that made Oliver's chest vibrate. It was not a song of battle or challenge. It was recognition.
Dumbledore broke the silence at last. "For centuries, phoenixes have been rare companions. Only Fawkes and I have shared such a bond in living memory." His gaze drifted to Nyx. "But now… the world has shifted."
Oliver glanced at Nyx, her feathers catching the light like the night sky itself. She trilled softly, leaning against his shoulder.
Dumbledore's voice was lower when he continued, almost reverent. "A female phoenix has not been seen for countless ages. Perhaps, Oliver, you and Nyx represent a renewal long thought impossible."
Oliver didn't understand fully, but the weight of the words pressed into him. Renewal. Change. Family.
And for the first time in his life, he wondered if perhaps he wasn't meant to be alone after all.
Nyx settled against Oliver's shoulder after her trill, her warmth seeping into him through the thick fabric of his robes. The sound of both phoenixes' harmony still echoed faintly in his ears, as if the very stones of the Headmaster's tower remembered it.
Dumbledore regarded him with that same unreadable twinkle, though his words were far heavier than his tone. "This moment will live in the annals of our world, Oliver. Few may know of it now, but history has turned on its axis."
Oliver swallowed. "Because Nyx is… female?"
The Headmaster inclined his head. "Indeed. Renewal, possibility—words scholars will debate for decades. But for you, I think, the meaning is simpler. You have been chosen, and she has chosen in return."
He let the words hang for a beat before shifting slightly, his voice easing into practicality. "But that is not the only matter before you. Winter approaches, and with it, a choice."
Oliver's chest tightened. "The orphanage," he said quietly. "Or Hogwarts. Or…" He trailed off.
"Or the invitations you received this morning," Dumbledore finished for him. "From the Flamels, and from the Scamanders. I am aware of both."
Oliver blinked. "You are?"
"Such letters do not fly far without a whisper reaching my ear," Dumbledore said, not unkindly. "You must decide where you belong this winter, Oliver. And know this: there is no wrong choice. Only the one that feels true."
For a long moment, Oliver stared down at his hands, fingers restless against the wood of his guitar case. He thought of the orphanage—the cold corridors, the noise, the way his presence was tolerated rather than welcomed. He thought of Hogwarts, its warmth and wonder, but also its constant watchful eyes, the endless whispers.
And then he thought of the Flamels. Their letter had not spoken of obligations or expectations. It had spoken of family. Not as a guest, but as family.
The words returned to him now with the weight of a promise.
"I want to go to them," Oliver said at last, his voice low but steady. "To the Flamels. Hogwarts feels like home, but… with them, it feels like I could have a family. Just for a little while."
Nyx trilled softly, brushing her head against his cheek, as if to affirm his decision.
Dumbledore's eyes softened, though his expression remained composed. "A wise choice, Oliver. You will learn much in their care. Perhaps more than you expect."
A thought flickered in Oliver's mind then—quiet but insistent. If he was to spend time with Nicolas and Perenelle Flamel, famed alchemists, could he not ask them questions? He had already begun reading small texts on the subject in the library, and though the words often ran away from him, something about alchemy felt… right. Connected. Maybe, if he was careful, he could learn more—enough to begin making sense of the fragments he carried in his head.
"I think," Oliver murmured, "I might ask them about alchemy. Just little things. Nothing too big."
Dumbledore's gaze twinkled. "I imagine they will be delighted by your curiosity. Nicolas has a weakness for young minds eager to explore mysteries. Perenelle, too, in her way."
The conversation drifted toward its end, but Oliver felt lighter, as if speaking the choice aloud had given it shape. When Dumbledore dismissed him, Nyx disappeared in a shimmer of blue fire, leaving only the faint scent of starlight in her wake.
Oliver rose, bowed his head respectfully, and left the office. The door shut quietly behind him, the corridor outside hushed under the weight of falling snow.
Inside the chamber, silence lingered for a long moment. Then Dumbledore moved, slowly, deliberately. On the arm of the chair Oliver had vacated, a single dark strand of hair clung stubbornly to the fabric.
Dumbledore plucked it free with careful fingers, holding it up to the light.
"Blood is not the only key," he murmured to himself.
Inheritance tests required many things, but hair was enough. It would tell him what he needed to know—or confirm what he already suspected.
The twinkle in his eyes faded, replaced by a gravity few ever saw. "If I am right," he said softly, "the boy carries more than a phoenix bond."
He tucked the hair into a folded scrap of parchment, sealing it with a murmur of magic before placing it deep in the drawer of his desk. Then he sat, staring into the fire, his thoughts hidden in the flames.
—
Oliver walked through the castle slowly, snow drifting in thin veils against the tall windows. His guitar strap pressed into his shoulder, a familiar weight. The whispers followed him still, but they felt muted now, as though the storm outside had quieted the world within.
For the first time, the thought of winter did not bring a hollow ache. He would not spend it in the orphanage. He would not linger in the cold. He had chosen—and more importantly, he had been chosen.
Nyx appeared again in a ripple of starlight, landing softly on his shoulder as he turned down the final corridor toward the Gryffindor common room. Her warmth radiated through him, and Oliver smiled faintly, fingers brushing the curve of her feathers.
"Family," he whispered. The word no longer felt out of reach.
Snow fell harder against the glass, but inside the castle, Oliver felt only warmth.
And for the first time in his life, the winter ahead promised not loneliness, but belonging.