The Flamel household glowed with warmth that morning, as though the very walls shared in the joy of the holiday. The tree in the atrium sparkled with tiny golden orbs that bobbed lazily between its branches. Wrapped parcels shimmered with faint enchantments, stacked neatly beneath. Nyx perched proudly on one of the higher branches, her feathers catching the light and scattering it across the room like stars spilled from the sky.
Oliver sat cross-legged on the rug, cocoa cradled in his hands, nerves twisting in his stomach. He had never had a Christmas like this—not one with family waiting by the fire, not one with gifts he had chosen and made himself.
Penny settled beside Nicolas on the sofa, her robes of deep red and gold gleaming faintly in the firelight. Nicolas leaned forward, his smile warm and patient, hands folded over his lap. "Well, my boy," he said gently, "shall we begin?"
Oliver swallowed, setting down his mug. His fingers curled around the two small boxes he had been guarding for days. "Can… can I go first?"
"Of course," Penny said softly, her eyes twinkling.
Oliver stood, heart pounding, and crossed the rug to hand each of them a box. "I—I made these. They're not much, but… I wanted to give you something of mine. Something of Nyx's, too."
Penny's brows lifted in curiosity, while Nicolas tilted his head. Together they opened the boxes.
Inside lay necklaces—simple silver chains, each holding a single dark feather. At first glance, the feathers were ordinary. But when Penny touched hers, it shimmered faintly, glowing with a pale blue light. Nicolas's eyes widened as his feather pulsed with the same glow.
Oliver rushed to explain. "Nyx shed them a few days ago. I noticed they… they kept glowing faintly at night. Not just light, but warm, like a charm. So I studied them, and I think they carry protective magic. I—" He flushed, words spilling out faster. "I figured out a way to weave the charm properly so that if you wear them, they'll protect you. Not just glow, but shield."
Penny's lips parted. "Oliver…" She lifted the necklace delicately, the feather glowing like a captured star in her palm.
Nicolas's smile deepened, though his voice carried awe. "You discovered this yourself? At eleven?"
Oliver shifted awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. "I just… followed what I knew. A bit of Herbology, a bit of Transfiguration theory, some Charmwork. It wasn't too hard once I realized how the feather reacted to magic. I thought… if Nyx protects me, she should protect you too."
The couple exchanged a glance—pride and affection mirrored in their eyes. Then, without hesitation, Penny clasped hers around her neck. Nicolas followed, the silver chain settling easily against his robes. Both feathers glowed softly, casting their faces in pale blue.
Penny leaned forward, her hand brushing Oliver's cheek. "It's not just 'something,' darling. It's extraordinary."
Nicolas nodded, his voice firm. "A gift of protection from your phoenix, shaped by your own hand. We will treasure these always."
Oliver's throat tightened, but he managed a small smile. "There's… there's one more thing."
From his satchel, he drew out two more packages—plainly wrapped hardbacks. He handed them over without meeting their eyes. "It's… a story I wrote. Before Hogwarts. I wanted you to have a copy."
Penny unwrapped hers carefully. Her brows lifted when she read the title. "Percy Jackson and the Lightning Thief, by Oliver D. Night." She looked at him, astonished. "You're an author as well as an alchemist?"
Oliver shrugged, blushing. "It's not… professional or anything. Just something I made up. But it's mine. And I wanted you to have it."
Nicolas placed a hand on the cover, his gaze steady. "We will read it, Oliver. Today."
The words rang with such quiet conviction that Oliver felt his chest ache.
Before the moment grew too heavy, Penny clapped her hands lightly. "Well then, it's our turn."
She reached beneath the tree, drawing out a long parcel wrapped in deep green. She set it in Oliver's lap, her smile wide and eager. "This one's from me."
Oliver tore the paper carefully, his eyes widening as polished wood gleamed beneath. A broom. Sleek, new, its finish gleaming like starlight. He traced the handle with trembling fingers, the etched runes glowing faintly at his touch.
"A broom?" His voice was barely a whisper.
Penny nodded. "A new model, faster than most. Nicolas and I… adjusted it, just a little." Her grin turned mischievous. "Quidditch will be watching you soon enough. Better you fly with something worthy."
Oliver swallowed hard, his heart racing. "It's beautiful."
He clutched it tightly, almost afraid it would vanish.
Nicolas cleared his throat gently, drawing Oliver's gaze. "And from me." He handed over a smaller envelope, plain white with gold edging.
Oliver opened it and blinked at the heavy parchment within.
"It's a voucher," Nicolas explained. "For a wand. Not from Ollivander's—no offense to him—but from France's most prestigious wandmaker. They craft each wand to its master, not in bulk. I remember you once said your wand never felt quite right. This one will."
Oliver's breath caught. His wand… it had always been adequate, but never his. To have one tailor-made—
"I… I don't know what to say," he whispered.
"Say nothing yet," Nicolas said kindly. "Use it well. That will be thanks enough."
For a moment, Oliver could only stare at them, broom across his knees, voucher trembling in his hands, Nyx trilling softly from the tree.
No one had ever given him gifts like these. No one had looked at him and thought not just of what he needed, but of who he was, who he might become.
Penny smiled, tilting her head. "Well? Don't just sit there. Go test it."
Oliver blinked, then broke into a grin. He shot to his feet, nearly tripping over the rug in his hurry. "I'll be right back!"
Nyx launched from the tree, wings flaring, and followed him out the door in a rush of cold winter air.
The Flamels watched him go, the sound of his laughter echoing faintly through the halls.
Nicolas glanced at Penny, his expression soft. "He has given us much, hasn't he?"
She touched the glowing feather at her neck and smiled. "More than he knows."
The air outside was sharp and cold, but Oliver barely noticed. The broom felt alive in his hands, humming beneath his grip as though eager to leap into the sky.
He mounted quickly, Nyx circling overhead with a low trill, and kicked off.
The world blurred.
The broom surged upward, smooth and fast, responding instantly to the tilt of his body. Oliver gasped, then laughed aloud, the sound torn away by the rushing wind. He leaned forward, and the broom obeyed like an extension of himself, banking into a perfect arc that carried him over the treetops.
Snow scattered from branches below as Nyx darted beside him, her feathers glimmering like fragments of the night sky. She kept pace effortlessly, sometimes vanishing in a shimmer of blue flame only to reappear above him with a triumphant cry.
Oliver tried a roll, half-expecting the broom to resist. Instead, it flipped gracefully, smooth as thought, leaving him upright again with his heart hammering.
"This is—this is incredible!" he shouted, voice raw with joy.
He dove, then soared again, carving arcs through the winter air. For the first time since arriving at Hogwarts, since leaving the orphanage, since—perhaps forever—he felt utterly free. Not weighed down by Slytherin's suspicion or by the ministry's looming eyes. Just him, the broom, and Nyx singing at his side.
By the time he landed, his cheeks were flushed and his hair wind-tossed, but his grin was unstoppable. Nyx alighted on his shoulder, chirping proudly as though congratulating him.
Inside, warmth hit him instantly. He stepped into the atrium to find Nicolas and Penny curled together on the sofa, each with a book in their hands. His book.
They hadn't even noticed him come in.
Penny's lips moved faintly as she read, her brow furrowed, utterly drawn in. Nicolas's eyes moved steadily across the page, and every so often his expression shifted—a small smile, a slight tightening of the jaw, a flicker of approval.
Oliver froze, heart thudding. He'd given them the books almost shyly, expecting them to maybe skim, maybe tuck them away. He hadn't thought they'd dive in immediately.
He set the broom carefully against the wall and sank into an armchair, trying not to interrupt.
Minutes passed. Pages turned. The fire crackled.
At last, Penny lowered her copy, blinking as though surfacing from another world. She turned her eyes on Oliver, and they were alight with wonder. "Oliver… this is extraordinary."
His ears burned. "It's just a story."
"No," Nicolas said firmly, closing his book and setting it gently on the table. His voice carried the weight of centuries. "It is not 'just' anything. It is clever, imaginative, and—most importantly—real. There is heart in every line. You wrote this before Hogwarts?"
Oliver nodded slowly. "Yeah. At the orphanage. I didn't… I didn't know what else to do with myself."
Penny leaned forward, clasping her necklace with one hand. "And you bound it, printed it, signed it—without telling us. My dear boy, do you understand what you've done?"
Oliver shifted uncomfortably. "It's just something for my friends. So they'd have… something of me."
Nicolas studied him for a long moment, then smiled faintly. "You've given them more than something. You've given them a world."
Oliver swallowed, unsure what to say.
Penny turned to Nicolas, then back to Oliver. Her expression had shifted—still warm, but sharper now, determined. "This shouldn't remain hidden. Oliver, your story deserves to be read. Properly read. By more than your friends, more than us."
Oliver blinked, stunned. "You mean… publish it?"
Penny's smile widened. "Exactly that. In the wizarding world. There are presses in Paris, in London, that would seize at a story like this. Adventure, courage, imagination—your words could inspire children and adults alike."
Oliver gaped, mind racing. Publishing had been a dream, vague and far-off, the kind of thing he didn't even let himself hope for.
"Do you really think…" His voice cracked slightly. "Do you really think it's good enough?"
Nicolas leaned forward, his eyes steady. "Oliver. It is not just good enough. It is exceptional. And it will only be the beginning."
Oliver sat back, breathless. Nyx trilled softly from the arm of his chair, as if echoing their words.
For a long moment, the three of them sat in the glow of the firelight—the boy with the broom at his side, the couple with his book in their hands, and a phoenix feather glowing faintly at each of their throats.
For the first time, Oliver allowed himself to imagine it: his name on shelves, his story in hands he'd never met, his words living far beyond him.
And in that quiet Christmas moment, the possibility felt as real as the warmth of the fire.