The familiar hum of Hogwarts settled around him like an old cloak, yet Albus Dumbledore found no comfort in it that night. The castle, ancient and steady, breathed with the whispers of portraits and the shifting groans of stone, but his mind was elsewhere—buried beneath the weight of revelation that gnawed at him relentlessly.
He sat alone in his office. Fawkes dozed quietly on his perch, feathers glowing faintly in the candlelight, the phoenix's presence a reminder of companionship, of eternity. But tonight, even the firebird's warmth could not chase away the cold coiling through Dumbledore's chest.
On the desk before him lay the folded parchment, sealed with wards only he could break. He had checked them twice already, the protective magic woven tight to ensure no curious hand could stumble upon what it contained. It was not simply a document. It was a wound.
He leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes. Again, the memory replayed itself with painful clarity—the goblin ritual, the glowing parchment, and the letters that carved themselves into permanence.
Ariana Dumbledore.Gellert Grindelwald.
The names still scorched his mind. Ariana. His sister. His lost, fragile, beloved sister. And Gellert—once friend, once love, then enemy. To see them joined in ink, bound to the existence of a child who now lived and breathed inside these walls… it was almost too much to endure.
Oliver D. Night. His student. His nephew.
Albus pressed a hand to his face. His fingers trembled slightly against his beard. "What have you done, Gellert?" he had whispered then. The words returned to him now, bitter as bile. And yet, when he had confronted Grindelwald, the man had not gloated, had not schemed. He had looked surprised—genuinely surprised. Perhaps even shaken. Which made the truth all the more terrifying.
He rose abruptly and paced, the hem of his robes sweeping across the stone floor. He had thought his days of great shocks were behind him. He had believed himself tempered, honed by mistakes, by losses. He had lost Ariana once to death; now he had found her again in blood—but twisted, impossibly bound to Gellert.
And Oliver. Bright-eyed, gifted Oliver. A boy who carried music in his bones and whose bond with a black phoenix defied every law Albus thought immutable. A boy who had suffered already, alone in an orphanage, never knowing he carried not just magic but bloodlines heavy enough to topple kingdoms. The child had no idea what legacy rested in his veins. Albus swallowed hard. For now, he could not be allowed to know.
He stopped at the high window, staring out into the snowy grounds of Hogwarts. Below, the Forbidden Forest slept uneasily, branches groaning under winter's weight. Somewhere within, unicorns wandered, safer now that Quirrell had been distracted. Dumbledore's jaw clenched at the thought. One danger traded for another. He could not let Oliver become a pawn—not for Voldemort, not for Grindelwald, not for anyone.
A faint cough escaped him. Old age, perhaps, or strain. He sat again and rubbed his temples. Silence stretched, broken only by the crackle of fire. Then, at last, he spoke.
"Hat," he said quietly.
From its shelf, the Sorting Hat stirred. Its ragged brim twitched, eyes opening like slits. "You called, Headmaster?"
"I did," Albus murmured, his gaze still locked on the parchment. "I find myself… questioning your judgment."
"Oh?" the Hat said, voice full of wry amusement. "That's unlike you, Albus. Usually, you delight in reminding me of my so-called wisdom."
Dumbledore's lips tightened. "The boy. Oliver. You placed him in Slytherin."
"I did."
"You should have placed him in Gryffindor."
The Hat chuckled softly, a dry sound. "So certain, are you? What has changed your mind? Or is this doubt born not from the boy's actions, but from what you've learned about his blood?"
Albus flinched. He had not expected the Hat to cut so sharply. "He has thrived among Gryffindors," he pressed. "His friendships lie there, his spirit resonates with courage, not cunning. His loyalty, his artistry, his—his heart—it is all Gryffindor."
The Hat's folds deepened in thought. "Yes. True enough. His heart leans toward Gryffindor, and I heard that yearning in him on the stool. But my task is not to place children only where they long to be. It is to see what they are—and what they need."
Dumbledore's voice was harsher now. "You condemned him to isolation."
"I gave him a forge," the Hat corrected firmly. "Slytherin tempers him, hones his resilience. His ambition, though veiled in music and gentleness, is fierce. He wishes not simply to play, but to move the world. He would have been safe in Gryffindor. But in Slytherin, he becomes unbreakable."
Albus sat heavily, lips pursed. "He never wanted Slytherin."
The Hat's eyes gleamed. "And yet he walks it. That, too, is courage. Greater perhaps than you admit."
Silence again. Dumbledore felt the sting of rebuke, yet also its truth. He thought of Oliver at the Gryffindor table, laughing with Harry, Hermione, the twins. He thought of the Slytherins' rejection, the letters sent home to parents, the threats whispered in shadows. The boy had borne it all, and still he stood, still he played, still he smiled with quiet defiance. Perhaps the Hat was right. Perhaps this was the fire Ariana never had a chance to kindle. Perhaps this was her legacy.
Albus closed his eyes. When he opened them, they were wet. He blinked the moisture away. "He is my nephew," he whispered. "The last ember of my family. And I fear I will lose him too."
The Hat said nothing. It did not need to. Fawkes stirred then, lifting his head, golden eyes watching his master with quiet sympathy. Albus reached out and stroked the bird's feathers, voice breaking. "I cannot fail him. Not as I failed her."
The flames in the hearth crackled louder, as though to answer. In the silence that followed, Albus Dumbledore swore to himself that whatever shadows gathered, whatever storms rose—he would guard Oliver. Not only as Headmaster. Not only as protector of the school. But as family
The vow hung in the air, fragile as spun glass yet heavy as lead. Dumbledore let his hand rest on Fawkes's plumage, fingers tracing the smooth curve of a scarlet feather, drawing steadiness from the phoenix's steady warmth. The bird leaned into the touch, a quiet reassurance that even in storms, there were anchors.
But Albus knew anchors did not stop the tide.
He withdrew his hand, reaching instead for the parchment sealed on his desk. The wards shimmered faintly at his touch, golden lines flickering before dimming again. He dared not break them, not tonight. Not when the very sight of the names inside threatened to unmake him. Ariana. Gellert. And Oliver.
The memory of Nurmengard crept back unbidden. The cold stone, the echo of chains, the sound of Grindelwald's voice—still rich, still sly, though tempered now by time and captivity.
"What is it you expect me to confess, Albus?" Gellert had asked, eyes sharp as ever despite the gauntness of his face. "I have not left this place. If your precious Ministry claims otherwise, they lie. Whatever haunts you tonight is of your own making."
At the time, Albus had bristled. But when he had revealed the parchment, when he had spoken Oliver's name, something shifted in Gellert. A flicker, faint yet unmistakable—a moment of recognition not of knowledge, but of possibility. As if, deep in the labyrinth of his mind, a door had creaked open.
"You think me guilty," Gellert had murmured then, voice distant, almost awed. "But no. No, I… I left those experiments behind. They failed. They all failed." His gaze had darkened, and for the first time, there was no arrogance there. Only bewilderment. "Unless…"
Dumbledore shivered at the memory. Grindelwald's eyes had widened—not with malice, not with triumph, but with realization. The thought that something long abandoned had borne fruit in secret, across the gulf of time, had left him shaken. For a man like Gellert, such a revelation was a fracture in the very bedrock of his belief.
And Albus had not pressed him further. He could not.
Now, in the quiet of his office, Albus considered the truth he dared not speak aloud: Oliver's very existence might not have been intentional. He was not the outcome of love, nor even of lust, but of meddling, of desperate grief and forbidden experiments. Yet what had emerged was no twisted shadow. He was a boy with music in his veins, courage in his steps, and a phoenix at his side.
It was unbearable irony. Out of folly had come brilliance. Out of reckless sin, a child who embodied hope.
Albus pressed his palms together, bowing his head. "Forgive me, Ariana," he whispered. "I could not shield you in life. Perhaps, through him, I may shield what remains of you in the world."
The room answered with silence.
He straightened, shoulders stiff, forcing his mind to order. Emotion clouded judgment, and judgment was needed now more than ever. He could not reveal the truth to Oliver—not yet. A boy of eleven should not bear the weight of such lineage. He should not be shackled by the sins of others. Let him laugh with friends, play his music, soar on a broom, and wrestle with lessons. Let him be a child, for as long as fate allowed.
But Albus would watch. Always watch. For where Oliver walked, the blood of two legacies flowed—one of light, one of shadow. And perhaps it was no coincidence that Nyx had chosen him, a creature unrecorded, born of mystery and night. Was it Ariana's blood, pure and fragile, that drew such purity of bond? Or was it Gellert's ambition, his defiance of natural law, that called to a phoenix black as midnight?
He did not know. Perhaps both.
The fire snapped, a log breaking under its own heat. Dumbledore lifted his gaze to the Sorting Hat once more. The old relic watched him in silence, its stitched mouth curved faintly as if it knew more than it ever revealed.
"You are troubled still," the Hat observed.
Albus exhaled. "I am… haunted."
"Haunted, yes," the Hat agreed. "But also… hopeful."
He gave a humorless chuckle. "Am I so transparent?"
"To me, always."
Albus looked away, eyes falling again on the parchment. Hope. That was the word, was it not? He had thought himself past hope, past the fragile illusions of renewal. Yet Oliver's laughter, his resilience, his defiance of isolation—it all stirred something Albus had buried with Ariana's grave.
Yes. Hope. Dangerous, but necessary.
He rose once more, slipping the parchment into a drawer and sealing it with layers of charm and ward so thick that even Grindelwald himself could not breach them. When at last the locks clicked into place, Albus rested his hand on the desk and whispered, "You are safe, my boy. For now, you are safe."
Fawkes trilled softly, a note of comfort.
Dumbledore crossed to the window again. Beyond, the moon spilled silver over the snowy grounds, and in the distance, a shadow stirred above the Forbidden Forest. He thought he glimpsed wings—vast, dark, sky-blue at the tips. Nyx, soaring as if to remind him that the boy was never truly alone.
He allowed himself one final whisper, carried into the night. "Not Slytherin, not Gryffindor. You are more than either, Oliver. More than blood, more than name. And perhaps, more than even I dare dream."
The Sorting Hat said nothing. Fawkes crooned low. The fire burned steady. And Albus Dumbledore, for the first time in many years, allowed himself to hope that family, however broken, might yet be reborn.