Oliver woke to the smell of cinnamon drifting through the Flamel home, the familiar sound of Penny's morning humming floating faintly up the staircase. For once, he hadn't risen before dawn; the heavy warmth of the feather-stuffed blankets and the late-night notes he had scribbled into his journal had kept him pinned to the bed longer than usual.
It wasn't until Nyx nudged him with her beak—a gentle prod that made his ribs jolt—that Oliver finally rolled over. She was perched primly on the bedpost, her dark feathers catching faint blue light from the window.
That was when he saw it.
At the foot of the bed sat a parcel. Not a letter or small trinket, but a full package wrapped in brown parchment, tied neatly with cord. For a moment, Oliver blinked at it, his sleep-dazed brain sluggishly trying to recall if Nicolas or Penny had mentioned another present.
The tag read: To Oliver. From Newt & Tina Scamander.
His eyes widened. He scrambled forward, tugging the knot loose, fingers clumsy in his excitement. The paper gave way to reveal… a suitcase.
It was old, the leather scuffed but still sturdy, brass corners gleaming faintly despite their age. The handle bore the wear of countless journeys. It smelled faintly of cedar and wild air.
Oliver frowned, lifting the case onto the bed. "A… suitcase?"
Nyx tilted her head, feathers ruffling, and gave a low hum.
He unlatched the case and lifted the lid.
The breath caught in his throat.
Inside was not fabric lining or compartments for clothes. Instead, he saw an entire space opening outward like another world—a stretch of green grass swaying gently under an enchanted sky, a small stream cutting through its center, bordered by stones smooth as glass. The air carried a faint scent of fresh rain and earth.
But it was empty of life. No creatures stirred in the grasses, no birds wheeled in the painted sky. It was a blank ecosystem—waiting.
On the inside lip of the suitcase sat a folded parchment note. Oliver plucked it out with trembling fingers and read:
Dear Oliver,
We are grateful for the tears you entrusted us. We could never bring ourselves to use them—they shine too brightly, like starlight in a jar. Instead, we keep them on a shelf, where they remind us of your kindness and Nyx's beauty every day. This suitcase is an old Scamander heirloom, charmed to hold habitats. It is empty now, but perhaps, in time, you will fill it. May it serve you as it served me.
With gratitude,
Newt & Tina Scamander
Oliver sat very still, staring down at the little world contained inside the leather frame. A space of his own. A gift not for now, but for his future.
Nyx hopped down, perching on the suitcase's rim. Her sky-blue eyes reflected the stream inside, her feathers casting a faint glow. She hummed once, approvingly, and Oliver had the odd sense she could already imagine what might live there one day.
He swallowed, his throat tight. "They didn't have to do this," he whispered.
Nyx looked up at him and gave a sharper trill, almost chiding.
Oliver laughed weakly, brushing at his eyes. "Alright, alright. I'll thank them properly. I just don't… I don't know how yet."
Breakfast was warm and familiar. Nicolas sat at the table with a small stack of parchment, scribbling notes in his neat hand, while Penny flitted between the hearth and the table, fussing over spiced bread and jam.
Oliver set the suitcase carefully at his feet before taking his place.
Penny spotted it immediately. "Ah. So you opened your belated gift?"
Oliver nodded. "It's—" He hesitated, searching for words. "It's incredible. An entire world inside. But it's empty. They said it's up to me to fill it."
Nicolas chuckled, setting down his quill. "That sounds like Newt. A gift that is both a tool and a responsibility."
Penny reached to squeeze Oliver's hand. "And a responsibility it is. If you ever house creatures inside, you must learn how to care for them properly. A habitat is not a cage—it's a promise of safety."
Oliver ducked his head. "I don't even know how to thank them."
"By growing into the wizard they already believe you are," Nicolas said softly, eyes kind. "That will be thanks enough."
After breakfast, Nicolas folded away his parchments and announced, "We've an appointment today. It's time, Oliver."
Oliver blinked. "Time for what?"
Nicolas smiled faintly. "For your wand."
Oliver's heart gave a startled leap. His wand—the one from Ollivander's—lay in his satchel upstairs. It had never felt wrong, exactly, but it had never felt quite right either. More like a borrowed tool than something truly his.
Penny leaned forward, eyes gleaming. "There are wandmakers, Oliver, and then there are wandmakers. Ollivander is fine for students, but he works in volume. Today, you'll meet one of the old masters. A bespoke wand—made for you, and you alone."
Oliver felt his palms go clammy. "A… bespoke wand?"
Nyx, perched on the back of his chair, gave a soft hum as if confirming the weight of the moment.
The journey took them through a Floo passage hidden behind the fireplace in Nicolas's study. One dizzying spin later, Oliver stumbled out into a quiet, cobbled quarter of Paris. The air smelled of sawdust, resin, and faint smoke.
The shop stood at the corner of a narrow lane, its sign carved into weathered wood: Lucien Dorièvre, Maître des Baguettes.
The windows were cluttered with strange artifacts—polished staves, crystals glowing faintly, ancient scrolls. Inside, the light was golden, catching on dust motes that danced through the air. The walls were lined with shelves of wood samples, each labeled with careful script.
Behind the counter sat a tall, thin man with silver hair pulled back neatly, his eyes sharp as steel. His long fingers were stained with ink and resin, and even at rest, they moved as though shaping unseen material.
"Maître Dorièvre," Nicolas greeted warmly.
Lucien rose, bowing slightly to the Flamels before turning his gaze to Oliver. His eyes seemed to strip him bare, weighing, measuring. Oliver shifted under the intensity, but held his ground.
"This is the boy?" Lucien's voice was low, deliberate.
"This is Oliver," Penny said proudly.
Lucien's gaze flicked to Nyx, perched on Oliver's shoulder. For the first time, his composure wavered; his eyes widened. "Mon dieu… A phoenix. But not one I have ever read of."
Nyx flared her wings, feathers catching the light in faint blue shimmer.
Lucien inclined his head deeply. "An honor."
He led them into the back room, a workshop filled with half-carved wands, shavings of wood, and jars of powdered crystal. The air was rich with scent—resin, sap, and faint metallic tang.
Lucien turned to Oliver. "Normally, I test a young wizard with many combinations. Wood, core, balance, until resonance is found. But with a phoenix here…" He spread his hands. "There is no need. The bird knows your heart better than you do."
Oliver blinked. "Nyx… can choose?"
"Phoenixes," Lucien said reverently, "sense magic in its truest form. She will guide us."
Nyx fluttered down from Oliver's shoulder, circling the workshop. Her feathers shed faint sparks of blue light as she glided from one bundle of wood to another. She paused at oak, then maple, but moved on. Finally, she landed on a stack of pale, straight-grained ash wood planks.
Her claws clicked against the surface as she gave a ringing cry.
Lucien's mouth curved into a rare smile. "Ash. The wood of resilience and purpose. It does not bend easily, but when it chooses… it never falters. A fitting choice."
Nyx turned, meeting Oliver's eyes. Then, with deliberate grace, she reached beneath her wing and tugged free a single feather. It glimmered black, tipped in shimmering blue. She laid it on the ash planks.
Oliver gasped. "Nyx—"
Lucien bowed deeply. "Perfection. A phoenix feather, freely given. The heart of your wand."
Nicolas reached into his coat then, producing something that gleamed in his palm: a palm-sized sapphire, glowing faintly with inner light. He placed it carefully on the workbench.
Lucien's eyes flicked to Nicolas's, and something silent passed between them. An understanding.
"This," Lucien murmured, lifting the crystal with reverence, "is no ordinary gem. A cousin to the Philosopher's Stone, though not its equal. It will stabilize and amplify the bond between wizard and phoenix."
Penny smiled softly. "And make it beautiful, too."
Oliver stared at the wood, the feather, the sapphire, his heart thundering. For the first time, it felt like all the pieces of himself—the music, the magic, the bond with Nyx—were coming together in something whole.
Lucien turned to him. "The wand will take days to craft. Every cut must be precise, every binding done with reverence. When you return, you will not simply wield a wand—you will carry a part of yourself."
Oliver swallowed hard and nodded. "Thank you."
Lucien's eyes gleamed. "No, boy. Thank her." He inclined his head toward Nyx.
Nyx hummed low, her gaze steady on Oliver. And for a heartbeat, Oliver felt the faintest flicker of her voice in his mind: Yours, always.
They left Lucien's workshop as the winter sun began to dip behind the rooftops of Paris, painting the streets in strokes of gold and shadow. Oliver clutched his satchel against his side, though there was nothing in it save his old wand. The real treasure, the beginnings of his true wand, remained on Lucien's workbench: ash wood, Nyx's feather, and the sapphire.
The three of them walked in silence for a while. The air was crisp, carrying the mingled scents of roasting chestnuts from a nearby stall and chimney smoke curling into the sky.
Oliver felt almost dazed, his mind replaying the image of Nyx laying her feather down with such calm certainty. She hadn't even hesitated. One moment, she had been perched on the plank of ash, and the next she had pulled free a feather, as though she'd been waiting all along for the right time.
"Are you alright, mon petit?" Penny asked gently, her arm brushing his as they walked.
Oliver blinked and gave a small nod. "Yeah. Just… it feels… big. Like everything's changing."
Penny smiled knowingly. "That's because it is. You'll never forget this day."
Nicolas hummed in agreement. "A wand is not just a tool, Oliver. It is an extension of your will, your spirit. That phoenix chose for you. That feather was given freely. And now, Lucien will weave it all together. What you carry will be unlike any wand in existence."
Oliver ducked his head, unsure what to say. Pride and pressure warred in his chest. He felt… chosen. But with that came weight.
Nyx shifted on his shoulder, her feathers brushing against his cheek, grounding him. She let out a low hum, one that Oliver felt more than heard. It eased some of the knot in his stomach.
Back at the Flamel home, Penny ushered them all toward the hearth. "Sit, both of you," she said, bustling about with the authority of someone used to being obeyed. "You've had a long day. I'll prepare tea."
Oliver sank into one of the deep armchairs. Nyx hopped from his shoulder to perch on the armrest, her head tilting toward the firelight. Nicolas settled opposite him, steepling his fingers.
"You look troubled," Nicolas said.
Oliver hesitated. "What if I don't live up to it? The wand. The feather. The sapphire. It feels like… like it's too much for me."
Nicolas's gaze softened. "Oliver, every great work begins with doubt. Do you think I discovered the Philosopher's Stone without wondering if I was reaching too high? Do you think Penny has lived centuries without questioning her choices? Doubt is natural. It keeps us humble. But what matters is what you do with it."
Oliver bit his lip. "And what if I fail?"
"Then you stand back up," Nicolas said simply. "That is the only way forward."
Penny returned with a tray of steaming cups, setting them down with a clink. She leaned over to press a hand to Oliver's hair, smoothing it back from his forehead. "You've already proven more strength than you realize. The suitcase. The feather. The friends you've made. You keep moving forward, Oliver. That is what matters."
Oliver managed a small smile. Their words didn't erase the weight he felt, but they gave him something firmer to stand on.
Later, in the quiet of his room, Oliver placed the suitcase on his desk. He unlatched it again and stared into the blank ecosystem. The little stream gurgled quietly, the grasses rippling in the enchanted breeze. It was still empty, waiting.
He rested his elbows on the desk, chin in his hands. "What do you think, Nyx?" he murmured. "Think I'll ever have anything to put in here?"
Nyx hopped onto the rim of the suitcase, peering down into the little world. Her eyes shimmered like twin stars. She hummed, a sound that seemed to vibrate in his chest, and Oliver swore he felt a faint flicker of reassurance.
"Yeah," he whispered, half to her, half to himself. "Maybe one day."
His gaze lingered on the stream, imagining what it would be like to see creatures drinking there, to hear birdsong echoing against the miniature sky. For now, it was empty. But it didn't feel hollow. It felt like potential.
He closed the suitcase gently, fingers brushing the worn leather.
When Oliver lay down that night, Nyx perched above him as always, her feathers casting faint blue light against the ceiling. His thoughts circled endlessly—of ash wood, of feathers, of sapphires and suitcases.
But as his eyes grew heavy, one thought crystallized above the rest:
This wasn't just about survival anymore. The world wasn't simply asking him to endure. It was asking him to create.
And with Nyx beside him, he wasn't afraid to try.