Oliver's return to Hogwarts felt different this time.
The January wind cut sharp against his cheeks as he stepped down from the carriage, his trunk rattling along behind him. Snow clung stubbornly to the corners of the courtyard, glittering faintly in the gray light. The chatter of students surrounded him—excited greetings, complaints about the holiday ending, footsteps echoing across stone. Yet Oliver felt none of the anxious weight he'd carried on his first arrival. His wand rested steady in the inside pocket of his robes, Nyx circled high above with a faint shimmer of blue against the clouds, and his guitar case bumped lightly against his leg with every step.
This time, Hogwarts felt less like a fortress and more like a challenge.
He noticed the stares almost immediately. Whispers rippled through groups of students as he passed: some curious, some envious, some dismissive. His name had traveled further than he'd realized. The boy with the Phoenix. The author whose book had appeared in Flourish and Blotts. The Slytherin who spent more time with Gryffindors than with his own house.
Oliver kept walking, not slowing, not meeting their eyes. He wasn't here for their approval.
He was halfway to the stairs that would lead down to the dungeons when he heard hurried footsteps behind him.
"Oliver!"
He turned just in time for Harry to skid to a stop, Hermione on his heels. Ron trailed reluctantly behind them, muttering under his breath, his expression sour as though he'd rather be anywhere else.
"We need to talk," Harry said urgently.
Oliver frowned. "Now?"
"Yes, now," Hermione insisted, grabbing his sleeve and tugging him toward the nearest empty classroom. Ron shut the door behind them with a thud, arms crossed as if to signal that this wasn't his idea.
Oliver leaned against a desk, brow raised. "What's so important you couldn't wait until supper?"
The three exchanged glances. Hermione's face was pale but determined. Harry's jaw was set, his eyes flickering with unease. Ron looked like he wanted to sink into the floor but didn't dare back out.
Harry spoke first. "It's Quirrell. We've been watching him."
Oliver blinked. "Watching him?"
"He's been acting strange," Hermione explained quickly. "Sneaking out at night. Going into the forbidden corridor. And sometimes into the forest."
"The forest?" Oliver's tone sharpened.
Hermione nodded gravely. "And Hagrid told us…" She hesitated, exchanging another look with Harry before pressing on. "He told us that unicorns have been killed. Recently."
Ron made a face. "And you don't get unicorn deaths unless it's something really dark."
The words hung heavy in the room. Oliver's hand slipped to the edge of his robes, fingertips brushing the wand hidden inside. He pictured the shimmer of unicorn hair, delicate and pure, and the thought of something hunting them made his stomach twist.
Harry stepped closer. "We went to Hagrid with what we'd seen. Quirrell in the corridor, in the forest. And he said something. He said, 'whatever's in the corridor is between Dumbledore and Nicolas Flamel.'"
Oliver froze.
Nicolas.
His chest tightened at the sound of the name spoken so casually, as though it belonged in whispered gossip. He forced his face still, but inside his thoughts raced.
Hermione's voice dropped, urgent. "We think it's the Philosopher's Stone, Oliver. If Quirrell's after it, then—then Nicolas Flamel could be in danger. You spend time with him. You must know—"
Harry finished the thought in a rush: "If Quirrell gets it, your friend could die."
The room went silent. The only sound was the faint creak of old wood as Oliver shifted his weight. He looked at their three expectant faces: Harry's earnest fear, Hermione's worried intelligence, Ron's uneasy defiance.
And then—
Oliver laughed.
It burst out of him, sudden and uncontrollable, a violent bark that echoed against the stone walls. He bent forward, clutching his stomach, laughter shaking his shoulders. Tears pricked at his eyes as he tried to stifle it, but the more he thought about their words, the harder he laughed.
Harry's eyes widened in shock. Hermione gaped, uncertain whether to be offended or alarmed. Ron scowled, crossing his arms tighter.
"What's so funny?" Ron demanded. "We're serious!"
Oliver finally straightened, wiping at his eyes, breath still hiccuping with chuckles. "You really think the Philosopher's Stone is at Hogwarts?" He shook his head, still grinning in disbelief. "At a school?"
"You really think the Philosopher's Stone is at Hogwarts?" Oliver said again, his voice lighter now but edged with something almost mocking. "At a school? Where eleven-year-olds practice levitating feathers and accidentally blow up teapots?"
Harry opened his mouth to argue, but Oliver cut him off with a shake of his head. "I hate to break it to you, but the real Stone isn't here. It's in France—with Nicolas and Perenelle. I've seen it. With my own eyes."
The weight of his words landed hard. Hermione's lips parted in shock. Harry blinked rapidly, trying to decide whether to believe him. Ron, on the other hand, let out a disbelieving snort.
"You're joking," Ron said flatly. "You? Seen the Stone? What, they just keep it lying on the kitchen counter while you're around?"
Oliver's expression sobered. "Not lying around. But they showed me. Because I'm learning from them." He leaned forward, his tone sharpening, losing the trace of humor. "So no, Quirrell isn't after the Philosopher's Stone. Not the real one. That's not here."
Hermione frowned, still skeptical but thoughtful. "But then—then what's in the corridor? Why would Hagrid mention Flamel at all if it wasn't the Stone?"
Oliver shrugged. "Probably a copy. Nicolas is… cautious. If Dumbledore asked for something to study, or to use as bait, it wouldn't surprise me if he made a replica. Whatever's hidden behind those doors, it's not the real Stone. But that doesn't mean it's safe."
Harry stepped closer, lowering his voice. "So you think Quirrell's still dangerous?"
"I know he is," Oliver said simply. "Anyone killing unicorns has already gone past dangerous. But this?" He gestured vaguely toward the forbidden corridor. "This isn't something kids should be trying to handle. If Dumbledore wanted you involved, he'd have told you."
Hermione pressed her lips together, clearly uneasy. "He's right, Harry."
Harry hesitated, then nodded slowly. "Maybe we should—"
But Ron broke in, his voice sharp. "Oh, come off it! You're both ready to drop this just because Oliver says so? He's not Dumbledore, you know. Maybe he saw something shiny in France and thinks it was the Stone."
Harry shot him a warning glare, but Ron barreled on. "We've already seen Quirrell sneaking around. We know something's going on. And if the professors aren't doing anything, then maybe it's up to us to find out what."
Oliver didn't rise to the bait. He just looked at Ron calmly, almost pityingly, as if the boy's anger couldn't touch him. "You'll do what you want, I'm sure. But don't say I didn't warn you."
Ron's ears flushed red, but he didn't reply.
Hermione tugged at Harry's sleeve. "Honestly, Harry, Oliver's right. This is bigger than us. We should just—trust Dumbledore."
Harry's eyes flicked from Hermione's earnest face to Oliver's steady gaze, then to Ron's stubborn scowl. For a moment, he looked torn between two worlds.
Finally, he sighed. "Maybe… maybe we should hold off. Just for now."
Ron let out a frustrated noise. "Fine. But don't expect me to sit around twiddling my thumbs while Quirrell steals whatever's up there."
The tension thickened, pressing against the stone walls of the classroom. Nyx, who had slipped inside unnoticed, perched silently on the back of a chair, her blue-tipped wings tucked neatly. Her eyes glowed faintly, like shards of the sky itself, watching as though she understood every word.
Oliver pushed away from the desk, adjusting his robes. "If you're smart, you'll focus on your classes. Leave the corridor to the people who actually know what they're doing." He opened the door, letting in the chill draft of the hallway. "Some things aren't meant to be solved by first-years."
He left them there, Nyx gliding after him like a shadow of starlight.
Inside, the trio exchanged uneasy glances.
Hermione spoke first, her voice low. "He's probably right. If Nicolas Flamel really does have the Stone in France, then whatever's here—it can't be worth dying over."
Harry rubbed the back of his neck, frowning. "Yeah. Maybe. I trust Oliver. He wouldn't just make something like that up."
Ron huffed, kicking at the leg of a chair. "Well, I don't trust him. Not with something like this. You two can sit around and do nothing, but I'm not. I'll figure this out. You'll see."
Hermione rolled her eyes. "Honestly, Ronald—"
But Harry said nothing. His gaze lingered on the doorway Oliver had walked through, his thoughts unreadable.
Somewhere deeper in the castle, the bells tolled the hour, their echoes weaving through the corridors like a warning.
And though Oliver had walked away, his words lingered:Some things aren't meant to be solved by first-years.