The first copies appeared in the shop windows before Oliver even woke.
In Diagon Alley, Flourish and Blotts displayed a modest stack of books by the entrance, their covers charmed to glimmer faintly when children walked by. A curious boy of about nine tugged at his mother's sleeve, pointing at the stylized lettering that read Percy Jackson and the Lightning Thief. She flipped open the first few pages, skimmed them, then tucked a copy under her arm with a small smile.
In Paris, nestled in a row of magical shops not far from the French Ministry, a different display charmed passersby with an illusion: flashes of lightning striking across the cover, then fading back into stillness. A group of students in school cloaks pressed their noses against the glass before stepping inside to each buy their own copy.
Oliver knew none of this.
He woke in the Flamels' home to Penny sliding open the curtains, morning sunlight spilling into the room. Nyx fluttered down from her perch on the wardrobe to land on Oliver's shoulder, feathers shimmering faintly in the pale light.
"It's out there now," Penny said with a small, satisfied smile. "Your book is sitting on shelves across Europe. Who knows? Perhaps some boy is already hiding beneath his blankets with it, candlelight flickering as he reads."
Oliver sat up slowly, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. His heart thudded at her words. "Really? Just like that?"
"Just like that," Penny confirmed. She placed a steaming mug of cocoa on his bedside table. "Publishing is sometimes a storm, but more often it is ripples spreading out. Quiet, at first. But steady."
Oliver wrapped his hands around the mug, the warmth seeping into his palms. He tried to picture it: strangers holding his book, flipping through pages that he had scribbled late at night in an orphanage where nobody cared to hear his voice. Now those words were free, roaming the world without him.
The thought made his chest feel tight—part pride, part fear.
"What if they don't like it?" he asked softly.
Penny's hand rested gently on his shoulder. "Then they'll put it down and someone else will pick it up. Stories find the ones who need them, Oliver. Trust that."
The day itself was unremarkable, at least from Oliver's vantage point. He didn't see the shelves in Flourish and Blotts or the curious students in Paris. All he saw was his room in the Flamels' home, the trunk at the foot of his bed yawning open, waiting to be filled for the journey back to Hogwarts.
He crouched beside it, folding his robes neatly as Penny had taught him. His guitar case leaned against the wall, freshly polished so that the wood gleamed. Beside it sat his enchanted notebook, its cover scratched from use but filled with hasty scribbles, sketches of devices, fragments of song lyrics.
Oliver hesitated before placing the notebook into the trunk. No—he pulled it back out and slipped it into the side pocket of his satchel. Some things were too important to risk losing.
The vials came next: glass bottles filled with liquids in shades of green and blue, corks sealed tightly. Each one was the product of hours spent hunched over Penny's workbench, her gentle voice guiding him. Stir clockwise. Steady your hand. Breathe with the rhythm, Oliver. What had once been frustration and failure under Snape's sneering gaze had become something steady, almost natural, under Penny's care.
He arranged them carefully in a padded case, feeling oddly protective of them.
On the desk, a small collection of tools and half-finished trinkets glimmered faintly in the morning light. An enchanted clasp that clicked shut with a whispered command. A small vial warmer that kept contents at a steady temperature. Nothing complete, nothing polished—just beginnings. Oliver looked at them for a long moment before packing them into a wooden box.
Not yet, he thought. I'll surprise them later.
By mid-afternoon, the trunk was nearly full. Oliver sat cross-legged on the floor, wand resting across his knees. He found himself running his fingers along the ash wood, tracing the faint grooves as though it were another instrument. The thought of putting it in the trunk hadn't even crossed his mind.
This wand wasn't an object—it was him. Since the day it had chosen him, it had never left his side. He tucked it into the inside pocket of his robes, fingers brushing against it every so often without thought. Like his guitar, it was an extension of himself, not a possession.
Nyx shifted from the windowsill to perch on the trunk lid, watching him with those sky-blue eyes.
"You think I'm ready to go back?" Oliver asked, half-smiling.
The Phoenix tilted her head, feathers catching the light, and let out a low hum that vibrated through the room. It wasn't reassurance so much as agreement—confirmation that the path ahead was where he was meant to be.
Oliver leaned back against the bed, exhaling. Hogwarts didn't feel as daunting anymore. He wasn't the same boy who had stepped off the train months ago. He had grown—alchemy, potions, music, even a little French that made Nicolas chuckle every time he tried.
Still, the thought of stepping back into the castle, of facing Snape's scowl and Slytherin's cold stares, made his stomach twist. But then he thought of Harry, Hermione, the twins, Hagrid—and the weight eased. He had allies now. He had family, even if not by blood.
And he had Nyx. Always Nyx.
The evening settled in, casting long shadows through the windows. Nicolas knocked softly on Oliver's door before stepping in, Penny just behind him.
"How goes the packing?" Nicolas asked with a faint smile.
"Almost done," Oliver said, glancing at the trunk. "Feels… heavier than before."
"As it should," Penny said. She touched the top of the trunk with a fond smile. "It's not just clothes in there anymore, Oliver. It's knowledge. Confidence. Things no one can take from you."
Oliver ducked his head, cheeks warming, but he smiled.
After dinner, Oliver lingered in the study instead of returning to his room. The fire in the hearth crackled softly, and the shelves of books that lined the walls seemed to lean in around him, as if listening. His trunk was already packed and ready by the door, but his mind felt restless.
He took out his enchanted notebook, flipping through pages filled with erratic scribbles and smudges of ink. Diagrams of trinkets, half-finished songs, fragments of theories that only half made sense. He ran a finger down one page describing a charm that might allow sound to bend around an object, cloaking it in silence. Another showed a rough sketch of a pocket-sized warming device, scrawled with notes about potions storage.
Nothing finished. Nothing perfected. Yet each one was a spark, something to come back to. He smiled faintly, closing the notebook and slipping it back into his satchel.
One day, I'll surprise them all.
He thought of Hogwarts—the classrooms, the endless corridors, the suspicion from his own housemates. He thought of Harry and Hermione leaning in to listen to his guitar, of the twins grinning at his rebellion, of Hagrid's booming laugh. He thought of Dumbledore's quiet smile when Nyx first revealed herself.
It felt strange, realizing he was no longer returning as the timid boy who sat silent in corners.
Of all the lessons he'd carried from his time with the Flamels, one stood out above the rest.
Potions.
At Hogwarts, it had been his weakness. Snape's sneer had poisoned every attempt, his disdain turning each mistake into humiliation. Oliver had accepted that he simply wasn't cut out for it.
But Penny had refused to let that be the end of it.
"Brewing is rhythm, Oliver," she had told him, guiding his hand as he stirred. "Like your music. You keep time with each step. You listen for changes. You adjust, you adapt. Potions are not a punishment. They are a performance."
And under her guidance, everything had changed.
No scorn when he measured too much. No mockery when the potion smoked. Just patience. Encouragement. A gentle correction, and the reminder to try again.
Soon he found himself slipping into the flow of it. Stirring in steady beats, like keeping time on his guitar. Listening to the way ingredients hissed or hissed, as if they had voices of their own. Smelling the shift when something was close to right.
In Penny's workshop, he discovered that potions weren't dreadful at all. They were… beautiful.
By the time the week had passed, Oliver could brew with confidence. Not perfectly—not yet—but well enough that Penny beamed at him, declaring him "a natural after all."
Oliver thought back on those hours now as he sat by the fire, and the realization settled deep in his chest: it hadn't been him. It had been Snape. The wrong teacher, the wrong environment, turning potential into failure. With Penny, he wasn't just capable. He excelled.
The thought made him smile, a quiet pride warming him from the inside out.
Later that night, Oliver returned to his room. His trunk sat closed, Nyx perched atop it with feathers fluffed like a sentinel. The Phoenix gave a soft chirp as he entered, tilting her head as if to ask if he was ready.
Oliver eased onto the bed, wand balanced across his knees. He brushed his thumb along the ash wood, comforted by its familiar hum.
"I've learned a lot here," he said softly. His voice didn't shake. "More than I thought I could." He looked at Nyx, her sky-blue eyes reflecting the lamplight. "But I think it's time to go back. Hogwarts feels… different now."
Nyx gave a low, resonant hum that vibrated through the air like a chord struck on invisible strings.
Oliver smiled. "Yeah. Different. But in a good way."
He lay back on the bed, wand still in hand, Nyx shifting closer to rest at his side. Tomorrow, the castle would open its doors to him again. Tomorrow, he would return not as the silent orphan with a battered guitar, but as someone who had grown, who carried new knowledge, new strength, and a Phoenix who sang when he did.
The fire in the hearth flickered low. Oliver closed his eyes, steady and sure.
This was only the beginning.