Oliver woke to warmth.
Not the kind that came from curling too close to the dormitory fire in Slytherin's underground chambers, nor the stifling heat of too many bodies crowded in the orphanage bedrooms. This was a different warmth—clean, steady, alive. Sunlight streamed through the window, gilding the room in pale gold. Outside, branches whispered against the glass, and something in the distance sang a slow, lilting call that sounded almost like a flute.
Nyx was perched on the sill, her feathers flaring faintly in the morning light. She seemed content, her sky-blue eyes fixed on the stretch of forest beyond. The shadows shifted there—shapes that might have been deer, or creatures stranger still.
Oliver blinked awake, sitting up slowly. The bed beneath him was softer than anything he'd ever known, the quilt thick and warm around his shoulders. For a moment, he just sat, staring around the room. Shelves lined with books and trinkets, a desk tucked beneath the window, a rug patterned with stars beneath his feet. His suitcase looked small and pitiful against the grandeur. His guitar leaned patiently against the wall, as though waiting to remind him of who he was.
There was a knock at the door.
"Master Night?"
The voice was high, careful. The door creaked open, and a house-elf peered in. Its ears drooped slightly, though its eyes shone with warmth. It wore a tidy tunic embroidered with faint alchemical symbols that shimmered when it moved.
Oliver scrambled upright. "Y-yes?"
The elf bowed low. "Master Nicolas and Mistress Perenelle ask if you are ready. They wish to show you the house. If you are not yet prepared, I may assist?"
Oliver rubbed the back of his neck, cheeks heating. "I—I think I'm ready. Just… give me a moment."
The elf nodded. "I shall wait."
A few minutes later, Oliver stepped into the hall with his guitar case slung over his shoulder—he didn't feel right without it. Nyx swooped down from the window to perch on him again, her feathers brushing his cheek like cool silk.
The elf led him through the corridors, each turn revealing something new. Portraits lined the walls, some muttering faintly in French, others sketching symbols in the air that faded into glitter. The house smelled faintly of herbs, parchment, and something sweet baking far away.
At last, they emerged into a wide hall where Nicolas and Perenelle stood waiting. Both were dressed simply today, Nicolas in a charcoal robe trimmed with silver thread, Perenelle in flowing pale blue. They looked less like figures of legend here and more like kindly elders—yet their presence still filled the space with quiet gravity.
"Good morning, Oliver," Perenelle greeted with a smile. "Did you sleep well?"
Oliver nodded quickly. "Yes, ma'am. Better than I ever have."
Nicolas chuckled softly. "Then we'll consider that a success. Come—we thought you might like to see what this house holds. It is more than stone and shelves. It is… a living place. A home."
Oliver followed as they led him through tall double doors. The air shifted, warmer, wetter, filled with the earthy scent of soil and greenery. They stepped into a greenhouse, and Oliver stopped short.
The space stretched impossibly far, larger inside than it had any right to be. Rows of plants climbed toward a ceiling lost in light. Some glowed faintly, casting blue or green radiance over the path. Others hissed softly, their leaves twitching when brushed. Flowers the size of umbrellas bowed lazily, dripping nectar into glass vials placed beneath them.
House-elves bustled between rows, tending to vines and misting leaves with wands. At the far end, a witch in deep green robes examined a cluster of spiny plants, scribbling notes on a hovering clipboard. She looked up briefly, gave Nicolas a nod of respect, then returned to her work.
Oliver's eyes went wide. "It's… huge," he breathed. "Bigger than the Hogwarts greenhouses. Bigger than all of them put together."
"Undetectable Extension Charm," Nicolas said lightly, though pride flickered in his voice. "This room is several times larger within than it appears without. It has taken centuries to fill it with such variety."
Perenelle crouched to brush her fingers along the petals of a delicate blue blossom that folded shyly inward. "Alchemy is not only metal and stone," she said. "It is balance. Plants hold power older than wands. Many potions begin here. Many experiments, too."
Oliver stepped forward, drawn like a moth. He recognized a few species—flutterby bushes, some snargaluff pods—but many more were foreign to him. He pointed to a cluster of vines that shimmered faintly with frost despite the warm air. "Those are… icebloom vines, aren't they? I read about them. They… keep growing even in fire."
Nicolas smiled faintly. "Sharp eye. And yes. Their sap resists both flame and frost. A stabilizer for volatile mixtures. Most first-years would not know that."
Oliver's cheeks warmed, but a small pride stirred in his chest.
They lingered there for a while, the Flamels pointing out plants, Oliver asking tentative questions. Nyx fluttered from his shoulder to perch on a branch, her glow mingling with the natural luminescence around them. The house-elves gave her wary but reverent looks, bowing whenever she trilled.
At last, Nicolas gestured toward another door. "Come. The library waits."
Oliver's pulse quickened.
The doors opened onto a chamber that made his jaw drop.
Rows upon rows of shelves soared toward ceilings lost in shadow, ladders gliding smoothly along rails without anyone touching them. Books floated gently through the air, reshelving themselves. Candles drifted above tables, their flames steady despite no wax beneath them. The smell of parchment and ink hit him like a wave, sharp and comforting.
It made Hogwarts' library look… small. Almost shabby.
Oliver stepped inside slowly, turning in place to take it all in. "This is… incredible," he whispered.
Perenelle laughed softly, the sound like a bell. "You may spend as much time here as you like. But be warned—curiosity can be a bottomless hunger. Not all shelves are meant for unsupervised hands. Some texts bite."
Oliver blinked, uncertain if she was joking.
Nicolas's eyes crinkled. "Start with what interests you. Knowledge is easier to swallow when it tastes sweet. You read at Hogwarts, yes?"
Oliver nodded. "I… sometimes stayed up at night. The library was the only place I felt quiet. Safe." He hesitated. "Some of the books on alchemy—I didn't understand most of it, but I wanted to."
"That," Nicolas said, "is enough. Desire to understand is the first ingredient."
Oliver flushed again, staring at the shelves as though they might spill their secrets just for him.
Oliver could have stayed in the library all day, eyes tracing along the towering shelves, but Nicolas touched his shoulder lightly.
"There will be time," the alchemist said gently. "Let us show you the rest. You must know the heart of this house if you are to call it a home."
Oliver nodded, reluctant but curious. He followed as the Flamels led him down a winding corridor. The air grew brighter, fresher, and when they stepped through the next door, Oliver's breath caught again.
It was like stepping into a meadow captured indoors.
The atrium was vast and sunlit, skylights enchanted to let golden rays pour down without weather. The floor was soft grass, dotted with wildflowers. A gentle stream curved through the center, its banks lined with smooth stones. Creatures moved freely: puffskeins rolling about like oversized, furry marbles; nifflers darting after coins left carelessly on the ground; and in one corner, two mooncalves grazed with slow, awkward dignity, their enormous eyes blinking at the newcomers.
Oliver froze, wide-eyed.
A puffskein hopped toward him immediately, rolling once before plopping into his arms. It let out a delighted purr, its fur tickling his chin.
He laughed—a startled, unguarded sound—and looked up at the Flamels. "It's… friendly."
Perenelle smiled warmly. "They know kind hands when they feel them."
Nyx fluttered from his shoulder to perch on a nearby branch. Her gaze was sharp, watchful, but not hostile. When the puffskein chirruped at her, she tilted her head and gave a soft trill in reply. The puffskein purred louder, as though satisfied.
Oliver cradled it for a long moment before gently setting it down. It rolled away to join its companions, bumping playfully against a niffler who squeaked in indignation.
Nicolas gestured around them. "Even the smallest creatures have their lessons. Patience, balance, attention. They remind us that magic is not only wands and words. It lives."
Oliver nodded slowly, watching as a mooncalf lifted its head, blinking at him with mild curiosity. He felt… calmer here. Like the air itself carried a gentler rhythm.
After some time, the Flamels guided him onward, through another hall and into a room unlike any other.
The alchemy chamber.
The moment he stepped inside, Oliver felt the weight of history.
The walls were lined with shelves of gleaming instruments: alembics of crystal, crucibles of iron, balances etched with runes that pulsed faintly. Astrolabe-like devices spun slowly in the air, measuring unseen forces. A globe of glass held a swirling silver mist that never settled. Tables bore stains from long-forgotten experiments, their surfaces scarred but solid.
Oliver's breath quickened. He moved closer, eyes darting. "That's… that's a crucible for dissolving metals," he said quietly, pointing to a squat vessel etched with sigils. His gaze shifted. "And those—balances for magical essence, right? I saw a picture once…"
Nicolas raised an eyebrow, impressed. "Indeed. You've read more carefully than most your age."
Oliver flushed, ducking his head. "I… I didn't always understand it. But I wanted to."
"That wanting," Nicolas said softly, "is more precious than gold."
Perenelle moved to a tall cabinet, opening it to reveal rows of neatly stacked notebooks, each labeled in delicate handwriting. She selected one from a high shelf—old, worn, its leather cracked at the edges, its pages thick and yellowed. She placed it in Oliver's hands with care.
"This," she said, "is one of Nicolas's earliest journals. Filled with mistakes, half-thoughts, experiments. Hardly perfect. But it is a beginning."
Oliver stared down at it, his throat tight. The weight felt immense—not heavy, but important. "You… you're giving this to me?"
Nicolas's eyes softened. "It will not teach you all at once. It may even confuse you more. But confusion is the soil where understanding grows. Let it be your companion."
Oliver clutched the notebook as though it might vanish. His voice was a whisper. "Thank you."
Perenelle touched his arm gently. "Do not bury yourself too soon. You will have time enough to grow dizzy from knowledge. For now, let it be seed, not burden."
Oliver nodded, still staring at the notebook. His fingers traced the worn edges as though to confirm it was real.
Nicolas's tone grew brisker, though not unkind. "Enough for today. Go, bathe, and prepare for dinner. Learning requires rest as much as study."
Oliver allowed himself to be guided back through the corridors, the notebook clutched tightly to his chest.
When he reached his room again, he sat on the bed and opened it carefully. The ink inside was cramped and hurried, diagrams scattered across the margins, notes scribbled in French and Latin. Some he understood faintly, others not at all. But the sight of it filled him with something he hadn't known he was missing—possibility.
Nyx hopped onto the desk beside him, peering down at the pages. Her feathers glowed faintly, casting star-like light over the ink.
Oliver smiled faintly. "Looks like we've got a lot to learn."
She trilled softly, as if in agreement.
A knock at the door made him jump. A house-elf's voice called through politely, "Master Oliver, dinner is ready."
Oliver closed the notebook gently, setting it aside with reverence. He rose, straightened his robes, and took one last glance around the room before stepping into the hall.
For the first time, he felt like a guest not just welcomed, but expected.