The dining room smelled of roasted herbs and fresh bread.
Oliver stepped hesitantly through the wide doorway, notebook still tucked under his arm as though it were a shield. The room wasn't grand like the Ministry halls or as cavernous as Hogwarts' Great Hall. It was warm, almost cozy, though elegant in its simplicity. A long wooden table stretched between two tall windows, its surface gleaming under the light of floating candles. Silver cutlery glinted faintly, and bowls of steaming food sent wisps of fragrance curling into the air.
At one end of the table sat Nicolas and Perenelle, their posture relaxed, their eyes warm. They didn't look like legends here—they looked like hosts, like guardians, like two people who had been waiting for him.
"Come," Perenelle said gently, gesturing to the chair across from her. "Sit. You've had a long day."
Oliver slid into the chair, trying not to look too awkward. Nyx landed on the backrest, folding her wings neatly and watching the proceedings with calm, steady eyes.
The house-elves flitted in briefly, setting dishes within easy reach, then vanished with soft pops, leaving the three of them alone in the flickering light. The table was filled with roasted chicken, potatoes glazed with rosemary, vegetables charmed to stay warm without overcooking, and a tureen of thick stew that smelled faintly of wine and garlic.
Oliver's stomach growled before he could stop it. His ears burned.
Nicolas chuckled, serving him a generous portion. "A good appetite is nothing to be ashamed of. It means you are alive, and life is worth feeding."
Perenelle passed him a basket of bread, her smile reassuring. "Eat, child. Then we may talk."
For a while, the clink of cutlery and the warmth of food filled the silence. Oliver ate carefully at first, self-conscious, but the flavors melted across his tongue and before long he found himself eating with real hunger. It was better than anything he'd had at the orphanage, better even than Hogwarts' feasts—not because it was richer, but because it was offered with care.
When the edge of hunger eased, Nicolas leaned back slightly, studying him. "Tell us, Oliver. How is Hogwarts treating you?"
Oliver froze with his fork halfway to his mouth.
He could lie. He could say it was fine, that he was learning spells and meeting people and keeping up. But the words caught in his throat. He thought of the whispers in the common room, of Daphne's cold dismissal, of Ron's glare across the Great Hall.
His fork clinked softly back to the plate. He lowered his eyes. "It's… not easy."
Perenelle tilted her head, her expression kind. "Go on."
Oliver hesitated, then forced himself to breathe. "Some of the others—they don't like me. Not because I did anything, just… because I'm in Slytherin, or because of Nyx, or because I'm not like them. They say things. They don't… see me as a person."
The words came out flat, stripped of bitterness, but the truth of them lingered heavy in the air.
Perenelle's eyes softened, her hand tightening briefly on her fork.
Nicolas nodded slowly, his expression grave. "Children can be cruel. Sometimes crueler than adults, because they do not yet know the weight of their words."
Oliver swallowed. "It's not everyone. Harry—he tries. Hermione too. And Hagrid. They… they're good. But it's not the same as…" He trailed off, unsure how to finish.
"Not the same as being welcomed," Perenelle finished for him gently.
He nodded, relief loosening his chest.
Nicolas studied him for another long moment, then asked quietly, "And yet you endure. Why?"
Oliver blinked at him, startled. "Because…" He paused, searching. "Because not everyone is like that. There are people who gave me a chance. Fred and George Weasley. They didn't care that I was Slytherin, or… different. They listened. They helped me when I didn't have anyone else." His voice grew firmer. "If it weren't for them, I don't know where I'd be. Maybe still stuck in that dorm, letting everyone treat me like I didn't exist. But they… they made it feel like I could stand up again."
His hands tightened around his fork, knuckles pale.
The silence that followed wasn't heavy—it was thoughtful.
At last Nicolas set his knife down, his eyes gleaming faintly with respect. "Then honor them. Boys of rare spirit, to see past the lines others cling to. Such loyalty, Oliver, is more precious than any spell or stone. Remember it always."
Oliver blinked, his throat tight. He nodded once.
Perenelle reached across the table, her hand brushing the back of his lightly. "Children like that… they are the ones who change the world without knowing it. And you, child, are wise to see their worth."
Oliver looked up at her, surprised at the warmth in her gaze. It felt… parental. Not pitying, not distant, but protective. For a moment, he didn't know what to do with it.
He ducked his head, muttering, "They're just… Fred and George. They joke a lot. But I think… they mean it, when they call me their friend."
"Then hold that close," Nicolas said simply.
The conversation drifted for a moment into quieter notes—the sound of knives against plates, the faint whistle of wind against the windows. Nyx hummed low, a note that resonated like approval.
Oliver let out a slow breath. For once, honesty hadn't made things worse. If anything, it felt lighter here, safer.
Nicolas let the silence linger just long enough for Oliver to find calm again. Then, with a deliberate shift in tone, he said, "And your studies? Beyond the children's cruelties, what have you found?"
Oliver blinked, pulling his mind from the past weeks of whispered insults and slammed doors. He thought of Charms class, the quiet thrill of levitating feathers. Of Transfiguration, when the rock had become a sparrow under his wand. His voice steadied. "It's hard sometimes, but… I like learning. I like when things finally make sense. And when they don't, I want to keep trying until they do."
Nicolas smiled faintly, as though that answer pleased him. "That, child, is the heart of alchemy. Not gold, not elixirs—patience with mystery."
Oliver glanced down at his plate, embarrassed by how proud those words made him feel.
It was Perenelle who leaned forward next, her eyes bright. "Have you thought of what questions you would ask, if you could? About magic, or the world, or even yourself?"
Oliver hesitated, then looked toward Nyx. She had her head tucked slightly, feathers gleaming faintly with an inner starlight. "I was thinking… Nyx is new. She's not like Fawkes. Maybe her feathers, or her tears… maybe they could do something special. Something no one's seen before."
The words spilled out before he could second-guess them. He flushed immediately. "I know it sounds stupid—"
But Nicolas's voice cut him off, calm and approving. "It sounds curious. Which is far better than stupid."
Oliver blinked at him.
Perenelle folded her hands, her expression thoughtful. "You see possibility, Oliver. That is the mark of someone who might walk this path seriously. Most would see a phoenix and think only of fire or rebirth. You look beyond, to what else she may give. That is the beginning of true craft."
Oliver's chest warmed, his embarrassment fading into something steadier.
He glanced back at Nyx. She shifted, her eyes catching his in that endless, sky-blue gaze. For a heartbeat, it was as though she approved.
"Besides," Nicolas added with a touch of humor, "if ever such properties were discovered, I imagine the entire wizarding world would scramble to your door. Best to prepare for a little chaos, hm?"
Oliver laughed softly, shaking his head. "Maybe one day. But for now, it's just an idea."
The silence that followed was comfortable, broken only by the faint clink of cutlery and Nyx's low hum.
Then Oliver spoke again, more hesitant this time. "My wand… it's fine. But it never felt… right. Like it wasn't mine. I've been thinking—if I ever make enough, maybe I could commission one with one of Nyx's feathers. Something that actually fits."
Nicolas's brows lifted, but he didn't dismiss the thought. Instead, he leaned forward, steepling his fingers. "That is not a small idea. Wandlore is… delicate. But I see wisdom in it. Too many accept what is given without question. Few dare to imagine better."
Perenelle nodded slowly. "Your thought is not reckless. It is rooted in longing, in the search for harmony. Many spend their lives never considering whether the tools they wield are truly theirs."
Oliver shifted in his chair, cheeks heating. "I just… don't want to feel like I'm borrowing something that was never meant for me."
At that, Nyx gave a soft screech—not sharp, but affirming. A glow rippled across her feathers, as if she too found the idea agreeable.
Nicolas chuckled. "Even she approves."
Perenelle's smile softened, but her tone carried weight. "Then remember this, Oliver: a wand is a companion, not a chain. If you one day shape one with Nyx's gift, it will be because both of you chose it together."
Oliver nodded, the weight of their words sinking into him. He felt suddenly very small, yet not diminished. More like he was standing at the first step of a long, long road.
The rest of the meal passed more lightly. Perenelle fussed over him to take a second helping of potatoes, Nicolas told a small anecdote about his earliest experiments (ending in a small explosion that nearly singed his eyebrows), and Oliver laughed—really laughed—for the first time in weeks.
As dessert appeared—small tarts filled with spiced apples—Oliver leaned back in his chair, full and strangely content.
Nyx trilled softly, her voice weaving through the candlelight.
Oliver realized, with quiet certainty, that for the first time in his life, he wasn't just visiting someone else's table. He was part of it.