The Great Hall was thinning out after lunch, the clatter of cutlery replaced by the low buzz of conversation. Oliver stayed at the Gryffindor table with Harry and Hermione. Ron still picked at his food, sulking more than speaking. Nyx perched neatly on the back of the bench, her feathers catching the occasional curious glance from nearby students.
Oliver had just reached for a roll when a shadow fell across the table. He looked up to see Professor Flitwick, smiling with genuine delight.
"Mr. Night," Flitwick squeaked, hands clasped together, "I must commend you. That story of yours—you've a real gift! The pacing, the rhythm of your sentences—it almost feels like music. Quite extraordinary for someone your age."
Oliver blinked. "You read it?"
"Of course! You sent me a copy, didn't you?" Flitwick chuckled. "I devoured it in two nights. I'm tempted to read it aloud to the class as an example of creativity married with structure."
Hermione beamed on Oliver's behalf. Harry grinned too, but Ron only muttered something into his pumpkin juice.
Before Oliver could respond, another figure joined Flitwick—Professor Sprout, her earthy robes dusted with soil. "I've only just reached the middle, but I must say—I love how you treat nature in your story. The reverence, the detail, the way you make it feel alive. It's… refreshing."
She nodded firmly. "You've talent beyond the classroom, Oliver."
Oliver stammered. "I—I don't know what to say. Thank you."
Then came Professor McGonagall, brisk and direct as ever. "It is no small thing, Mr. Night, to complete such a work at your age. Most of my students struggle to finish essays, yet you managed a whole book." Her mouth twitched into the barest hint of a smile. "A feat worthy of recognition."
Oliver's ears burned. "That means a lot, Professor."
By now, students nearby had started to hush their own conversations, ears tilting toward the Gryffindor table. The line of professors was unusual enough—but their words of praise directed at Oliver Night were enough to stir every curious eye.
Even Professor Sinistra paused as she passed, tilting her head. "I haven't finished it yet, but the ideas you've woven… fascinating. Where did you find such inspiration?"
Oliver hesitated, aware of the attention. "It just… came to me. Stories I grew up with. Things I thought were worth writing down."
A deeper voice joined the chorus, smooth and unmistakable. "Indeed, inspiration comes in many forms."
Dumbledore had drifted closer, hands folded behind his back, eyes twinkling faintly. He looked down at Oliver with the kind of gentle weight that made everyone nearby straighten in their seats. "I, too, have found your story quite compelling. To stir both imagination and curiosity at once is no small feat, Oliver. You've given your peers and your teachers alike much to think about."
Oliver swallowed, caught between embarrassment and pride. "Thank you, Headmaster."
Whispers broke out instantly across the Hall.
"Did Dumbledore just say he read it?""He liked it!""What's in that book, anyway?"
Oliver shifted in his seat, trying to ignore the way the room seemed to lean in his direction. He cleared his throat softly. "What you all read—that wasn't the final version."
Flitwick raised his brows. "Oh?"
"I mean… it was my first draft," Oliver said carefully. "Over the break, the Flamel couple helped me refine it. We edited the whole thing—made it stronger, closer to magical accuracy. The new version is already in shops."
The words landed like sparks in dry straw. Professors exchanged looks of pleased surprise. McGonagall gave a crisp nod, Sprout's face lit up, and Flitwick nearly bounced on his toes.
"I'll certainly be picking up a copy," Flitwick said."As will I," Sprout agreed.McGonagall added, "It will be good to compare your growth between drafts. Improvement is the mark of a true scholar."
All around them, students began buzzing louder.
"Wait, the Flamels worked on it?""There's a new version?""If the professors are reading it, we should too."
Oliver felt the flush in his cheeks deepen. He hadn't meant to start a scene, but it was too late now.
The professors eventually dispersed, their words still hanging in the air like echoes. Dumbledore gave Oliver one last nod before turning away, his robes sweeping silently across the stone floor.
The moment he was gone, the Hall erupted into low, hungry whispers.
"Did you hear that? He published it.""The Flamels helped him edit it?""It must be brilliant if all the professors are reading it."
Oliver sat very still, his hands folded over his plate, trying to ignore the growing number of eyes darting his way. Hermione leaned closer, whispering urgently, "You do realize what you've just done, don't you? Now half the school will want to read your book."
Harry grinned. "Good. Let them. You deserve the attention, Oliver. It's not every day a Hogwarts student becomes an author."
Ron muttered something under his breath, but Hermione shot him a warning look before he could ruin the moment.
Further down the table, Seamus nudged Dean. "If the teachers liked it that much, I'm going to find a copy. We can't be the only ones who haven't read it."
Across the aisle, a Ravenclaw table buzzed with louder chatter. "It's already in shops? I'll owl my parents tonight!" Padma Patil said, her eyes bright.
"Bet it's in Flourish and Blotts by now," Terry Boot added. "They always get the new releases first."
Even the Hufflepuff table wasn't immune. Justin Finch-Fletchley leaned over to Ernie Macmillan. "Did you hear Sprout? If she thinks it's worth reading, then I'm buying one."
Whispers layered over whispers until the Hall seemed full of them. The name Oliver Night threaded through the noise, entwined now with words like author, book, Flamels, and published.
Oliver hunched his shoulders slightly, not from shame but from the sheer weight of attention pressing down on him. Nyx clicked her beak softly, tilting her head as if amused by all the fuss. Her calm presence steadied him, as it always did.
Hermione noticed his discomfort and gave him a small, reassuring smile. "It's all right. The rumors will spread anyway. At least they're good ones for once."
She was right. Unlike the sneers and whispers from Slytherin early in the year, these murmurs carried curiosity, even admiration.
By the time dessert appeared, it was clear the tide of conversation had shifted entirely. Students leaned across tables, speculating about the plot, the style, the involvement of the Flamels. More than once, Oliver caught someone glancing at him with a look that wasn't disdain but intrigue.
Harry leaned back, watching it all unfold. "Looks like you've just become Hogwarts' most popular author."
Oliver shook his head, lips twitching into the faintest smile. "I just wrote what I wanted to read. If people like it, that's their choice."
But as the Hall emptied out and the whispers followed them into the corridors, Oliver couldn't help but feel the stir of something larger taking shape.
Far away, in shops scattered across wizarding Britain, the first revised editions of The Lightning Thief were already stacked in neat piles. And by morning, with Hogwarts students eager to buy their own copies, the numbers would begin to climb—slowly at first, then faster, like kindling catching fire.
Oliver didn't yet know the scale of it. But the ripples had begun.