Snow powdered the grounds of Hogwarts as if the castle had been dressed in silver. The air carried the crisp bite of winter, seeping into the corridors even through enchanted windows. Students hurried through the Great Hall that morning, trunks dragging behind them, owls swooping overhead, voices overlapping in a cacophony of goodbyes. The long tables were dotted with half-finished breakfasts as friends clutched each other's hands, exchanged last words, and made promises to write.
Oliver sat near the middle of the Gryffindor table, his guitar strapped securely to his back, Nyx perched proudly on the bench beside him. She ruffled her dark wings, scattering faint sparks of blue light across the bench, drawing more than one stare. For once, Oliver didn't hunch under the attention. He sat upright, quiet but steady, his eyes following the swirl of students.
"I'll be back," Oliver said simply. His voice carried a certainty he hadn't expected to feel. "It's just for the break."
Her lips pressed into a line, but she nodded. "Write, then. Even if it's just a line or two. Promise?"
Oliver hesitated only a moment before replying. "Promise."
Harry, sitting across from them, grinned. "I think you'll have more stories than any of us by the time you get back. The Flamels? That's mad. Proper legends."
Ron stabbed moodily at his eggs. "Legends who probably only invited him because of his bird."
Hermione rolled her eyes. "Jealousy doesn't suit you, Ron."
Harry shot Ron a warning look, then turned back to Oliver. "Ignore him. You'll be brilliant. Just don't forget we'll be here, yeah?"
Oliver nodded. The quiet warmth in Harry's words lingered with him.
The twins were further down the bench, but they caught Oliver's eye. Fred lifted his goblet in a silent toast; George smirked, mouthing, Don't let them make you French. Oliver managed a small smile in return.
The Hall was alive with movement, but for Oliver, it all blurred into a rush of color and sound. The real weight pressed on him when Hermione finally stood, her trunk at her side, scarf wound tight around her neck. She hugged Harry quickly, then Oliver—unexpected but sincere. "Safe travels," she whispered. "And don't forget—write."
"I won't," Oliver murmured.
Ron mumbled a goodbye too, though his tone lacked Hermione's warmth. The twins slapped Oliver on the back as they passed, leaving him momentarily breathless but oddly lighter.
When the time came to gather with the other departing students, Oliver rose, his guitar pressing against his back. Nyx fluttered up to his shoulder, her feathers brushing his cheek in silent reassurance.
The castle doors swung open to reveal the snow-covered grounds. The carriages waited in rows, drawn by patient thestrals only a few older students could see. The air was sharp, biting at cheeks and fingers, but Oliver hardly noticed. His steps were steady, his breath clouding before him as he climbed into the carriage.
From the window, he caught sight of Harry and the twins watching from the steps of the castle. Harry lifted a hand in farewell; the twins gave exaggerated waves. Ron stood beside them, arms crossed, muttering something Oliver couldn't hear.
The carriage jolted forward, the sound of hooves crunching in the snow. Hogwarts grew smaller behind him, its towers blurred against the white sky. Nyx gave a soft trill, pressing closer to his cheek.
"Family," Oliver whispered under his breath. The Flamels' letter weighed against his chest, tucked safely in his robes. The word didn't feel foreign anymore.
As the carriages rolled on toward Hogsmeade, Oliver allowed himself to hope.
—
The castle felt different once the last carriage disappeared into the distance.
Harry stood on the steps for longer than necessary, the cold seeping into his fingers. Beside him, the twins muttered cheerfully to each other, planning mischief to fill the quiet days ahead. Ron shuffled his feet, clearly bored already.
"Bet the holidays will be dull without everyone," George remarked.
"Not for us," Fred countered, grinning. "We've got free run of the place."
Harry managed a laugh, though his eyes lingered on the road where Oliver had vanished. Something about the castle felt emptier without him.
Inside, the halls were quieter. The echo of footsteps seemed louder without the constant press of students. The Christmas decorations were going up—evergreens twined with ribbons, enchanted candles floating in the air—but the cheer felt muted.
The first days passed without incident. Harry, Ron, and the twins spent hours in the common room, playing games of Exploding Snap and trading stories. Nyx's absence was notable; more than once Harry glanced at the rafters, half-expecting to see a flicker of dark wings.
But not everything was still.
It was Fred who noticed it first. "Quirrell's been acting stranger than usual," he whispered one evening as they passed the Defense classroom.
"Stranger?" George echoed. "That's saying something."
Harry paused, listening. Through the crack of the door, he could hear faint muttering. Not the nervous stammer Quirrell used in lessons, but something harsher, lower.
"Sounds like he's talking to someone," Harry murmured.
"But no one's in there," Fred said, peering through the gap.
They moved on quickly, not wanting to be caught, but unease followed Harry back to the common room. He tried to dismiss it as nerves—it was only Quirrell, after all—but the sound of that low voice clung to him.
—
The nights in Hogwarts grew colder. Snow piled against the windows, muffling the world outside. Fires burned brightly in the common room, but Harry found himself restless.
Once, passing through a darkened corridor alone, he heard it again: Quirrell's voice.
"…wait… soon…"
Harry froze, heart thudding, but the words faded into silence before he could catch more.
He hurried back to the warmth of the common room, telling himself it was nothing. Still, unease gnawed at him.
And in the shadows of the castle, Professor Quirrell stood alone, his face pale, his hands trembling as he adjusted his turban.
"Patience," he whispered, his voice low, not his own. "Patience. Soon, there will be no one to interfere."
The torches flickered, and the corridor seemed darker for it.