The train's whistle screamed one last time before it rolled into the station, steam billowing from its scarlet engine in white clouds that curled into the crisp December air. Excited voices filled the corridor as students dragged their trunks down from the racks, owls hooted restlessly in their cages, and the clatter of hurried feet echoed through the compartments. The heavy press of bodies spilled into the aisles, everyone eager to be the first to glimpse their waiting families beyond the platform barrier.
Oliver held his guitar case close as the train slowed to a halt. Nyx was perched above him, her feathers folded tight against her body, glowing only faintly in the dim light of the carriage. She looked almost solemn, head tilted as though she too sensed the anticipation rippling through the air.
He rose slowly, letting the rush of students pass him by. There was no one waiting for him at the barrier, no parents stretching their arms wide, no siblings shouting his name over the crowd. Still, there was a strange warmth inside him—not the hollow ache he'd expected, but something steadier. Perhaps because he knew he wasn't leaving alone.
He hurried to catch up, swinging his battered suitcase over one shoulder and clutching his guitar in the other hand. Nyx glided after him, her wings unfurling just enough to carry her low above the crowd, scattering whispers wherever she went. Students glanced up, wide-eyed, though no one dared to say anything aloud. The glow she shed seemed to soften the steam clouds curling in the air.
They stepped off the train together, boots thudding against the platform. It was chaos—children running into their parents' arms, voices rising in a dozen different languages, the smell of roasted chestnuts and smoke carried on the cold wind. Owls swooped overhead, and the station echoed with greetings, laughter, and the occasional scolding shout from an exasperated parent.
Just when things looked calm, a commotion stirred further down the platform. A cluster of reporters—quills scratching frantically, cameras flashing—had gathered around an elderly couple. The man stood straight despite his age, his silver-white hair combed neatly, his eyes sharp and intelligent behind a thin-rimmed pair of spectacles. The woman beside him carried herself with quiet elegance, her golden hair pinned up, her smile patient though faintly strained as she fielded question after question.
Oliver recognized them instantly. Nicolas and Perenelle Flamel.
Reporters jostled for space, shouting over one another. "Monsieur Flamel, is it true—?" "Madame, about the Philosopher's Stone—?" "What are your thoughts on the rumors from Hogwarts?"
The couple gave no answers beyond polite deflections. But then, as though sensing eyes on them, Nicolas turned his head. His gaze landed on Oliver.
And he smiled.
Perenelle followed his look, her own expression softening. She said something to the nearest reporter, too low to be heard, and within moments the crowd was dispersing, muttering their frustration as the couple moved away.
Hermione's parents stared in muted surprise as the Flamels walked straight toward them. The students nearby hushed their chatter, craning their necks to see.
Nicolas bowed his head slightly when he reached them. "Good afternoon," he said, his French accent lilting but clear. His eyes crinkled warmly. "Forgive the interruption. I see our young friend has found his way safely."
"Well then," Nicolas said, breaking the silence, "it seems it is our turn to collect you."
Perenelle smiled at Oliver, her eyes soft. "Shall we?"
Oliver hesitated, biting his lip. The question that had been burning in his chest since before the train ride pressed forward, reckless and insistent. "Wait. Before we go… could I ask a favor?"
Both Flamels paused, their expressions attentive. Nicolas raised a snowy eyebrow. "A favor?"
Oliver shifted, suddenly aware of how childish it might sound. "There's a… a shop. In Britain. I sent something there a while ago. Something I wrote."
Perenelle tilted her head. "Something you wrote?"
"Nothing big," Oliver added quickly, his words tumbling over each other. "Just—I wanted to check on it. Maybe pick up some copies, you know, for Christmas presents." He forced a crooked smile, hoping it didn't look as nervous as it felt.
For a moment, Nicolas studied him with those sharp, knowing eyes. Then he chuckled, shaking his head. "A boy with secrets. How refreshing."
Perenelle's lips curved into a faint smile. "Very well. Presents, then."
Oliver exhaled in relief, clutching his guitar case tighter.
"Come," Nicolas said, drawing a small silver coin from his pocket. It glimmered faintly in the station's light, etched with runes that seemed to shift if stared at too long. "This will do nicely."
They moved to a quieter corner of the station, away from curious eyes. Nicolas held the coin out between them. "On three. One… two… three."
Oliver touched the coin, and the world yanked away.
The pull in his stomach was sharp, as though an invisible hook had caught him and dragged him forward. Air roared in his ears, colors spun wild and meaningless, and he couldn't breathe, couldn't think, only endure the rushing madness. His fingers locked desperately around the guitar case.
Then, with a lurch, his feet slammed onto solid ground. He staggered, gasping. The coin clinked harmlessly onto polished stone before vanishing.
Oliver bent over, bracing his hands on his knees. His hair clung to his forehead with sweat.
"First time?" Nicolas asked, his tone amused.
Oliver nodded mutely, still trying to catch his breath.
Then, instinctively, he looked up and whispered, "Nyx."
At once, dark blue fire bloomed in the air, shimmering like a tear ripped into space itself. Within the flames, starlight seemed to glimmer, galaxies twisting faintly before bursting outward. Nyx stepped from the brilliance, her feathers unfurling, eyes burning sky-blue.
Gasps rose around them.
They stood in the atrium of the French Ministry of Magic, and witches and wizards had already turned to stare. The vast chamber was built of pale marble, its high ceiling painted with constellations that shifted and sparkled faintly. Floating crystal chandeliers lit the space, and enchanted murals along the walls depicted legendary magical figures of France's history.
But all eyes were on Nyx.
She perched lightly on Oliver's shoulder, her gaze calm, as though the attention were nothing new. She hummed once, a sound like the echo of a harp string, and several witches clutched their hands to their hearts.
"Magnifique," someone whispered.
The Flamels moved with quiet authority, ignoring the murmurs. Nicolas gave Oliver a reassuring nod. "Come. They will stare, but they will not intrude. Not here."
Oliver followed, still unsteady from the Portkey but steadier with Nyx's warmth pressed against his neck. He tried not to shrink under the curious eyes tracking his every step.
They left the atrium through an arched doorway, passed down halls lined with polished stone and gilded sigils, and emerged into the crisp evening air.
"Hold on tight," Perenelle murmured, and before Oliver could ask why, the world twisted again. Apparition slammed into him like a wave, and then it was gone.
They stood before the Flamels' home.
The house rose from the earth like something grown rather than built. Its stone walls were covered in ivy, its windows glowed golden against the darkening sky, and smoke curled lazily from its chimneys. The grounds stretched wide, bordered by an ancient forest whose edge shimmered faintly with protective wards. From within the trees, Oliver glimpsed movement: deer with faintly glowing antlers, birds with silver-tipped wings, something that might have been a unicorn slipping silently through the undergrowth.
Two house-elves appeared at once, bowing low. "Master Nicolas, Mistress Perenelle," one piped in a high voice, "welcome home."
The other's wide eyes fixed on Oliver. "And guest." It dipped again, almost reverently, to Nyx.
Oliver froze, unsure what to say, but Nyx tilted her head, feathers gleaming.
"Come," Perenelle said gently, resting a hand on Oliver's shoulder. "You must be tired. Let us show you your room."
The warmth of the house hit him as soon as he stepped inside. The air smelled of herbs and old books, firelight flickered in every hearth, and shelves lined with curiosities filled the walls: vials that glowed faintly, tomes bound in worn leather, silver instruments that ticked softly to themselves. It was nothing like the cold walls of the orphanage, nor the drafty dorms of Slytherin. It felt lived in. It felt safe.
When at last he was left alone in his room—a bed with thick quilts, a small desk under a window overlooking the forest—Oliver set his guitar carefully by the wall and sat down heavily. Nyx perched on the windowsill, her feathers glowing faintly in the moonlight.
Oliver leaned back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. For the first time, he felt the tightness in his chest loosen. Not gone, not fully, but eased.
"Maybe this," he whispered to Nyx, "is what home feels like."
Nyx trilled once, a sound soft as falling snow, and for a moment, Oliver believed it.