Lucius Malfoy's morning began with a letter.
The crisp envelope sat on the silver tray a house-elf had presented, humming faintly with a pulse of magic he hadn't felt in years. Dark, cold, suffocating — a presence that curled like smoke through his veins the moment his fingertips brushed the parchment. His lips curved into a thin smile. There was no mistaking it. His master's touch lingered here.
Lucius broke the seal with deliberate slowness. A faint ripple of power spilled from the parchment, raising gooseflesh along his arm. The letter itself contained only a few short lines:
"Investigate the boy, Oliver Night. Report what you find. His phoenix marks him."
Lucius exhaled softly, the smile deepening. So Draco had not been exaggerating about the Slytherin first-year. A black phoenix, a spectacle in the Great Hall, and now his Lord's direct interest? There was power worth noticing in that child.
He folded the letter away and tapped his cane against the marble of Malfoy Manor's foyer. There was only one place to start.
Gringotts smelled of parchment and iron. Goblins hunched over desks and counters, their sharp quills scratching without pause. Lucius moved through the marble hall with the unhurried elegance of someone who knew his coin outweighed resistance. He requested a private consultation and was led down to a side chamber, where an older goblin with a scar across his cheek eyed him coldly.
"I am told you inquire into a student," the goblin rasped.
Lucius offered the first pouch of gold. It clinked heavily on the table. "I am told Gringotts records bloodlines as thoroughly as vault holdings. I want confirmation."
The goblin's nostrils flared. "We do not sell the secrets of wizardkind lightly."
The second pouch fell with a louder thud. And then a third, filled with polished gems that glittered in the low light. Lucius leaned forward, voice dropping into velvet steel.
"Then consider this incentive… and a reminder that cooperation with House Malfoy often leads to greater opportunities."
The goblin's sharp teeth glinted in a reluctant smile. He vanished into the stacks at the back, leaving Lucius waiting. The minutes dragged until the goblin returned with a scroll of parchment, ancient ink curling across its surface.
"Oliver D. Night," the goblin intoned. "Inheritance testing confirms bloodlines traced to Ariana Dumbledore and Gellert Grindelwald."
Lucius froze. For the first time in years, his mask slipped. A chill crept up his spine. Dumbledore and Grindelwald—two of the most dangerous names in magical history—bound together in the blood of one boy?
He forced composure back onto his face, thanked the goblin curtly, and left with the knowledge burning in his skull. This was not something he would sully himself with by speaking aloud. No—this was a gift best passed to someone who thrived on scandal.
By evening, Rita Skeeter's quick-quill was already scratching furiously across parchment, the gleam in her eyes that of a predator catching the scent of blood.
The next morning at Hogwarts was quiet until the owls arrived.
The rush of wings filled the Great Hall, parchment and packages tumbling onto tables. Students reached eagerly for their post—until a shrill gasp cut the air.
"Look! The Prophet!"
Heads turned. A bold black headline sprawled across the front page, inked large enough to catch every eye:
"Oliver Night: Secret Heir of Dumbledore and Grindelwald? Potential Dark Lord in Training!"
The Hall erupted.
Whispers shot from table to table, shouts overlapping. Laughter, fear, disbelief. Students craned their necks to stare at Oliver, sitting stiffly at the Gryffindor table beside Harry and Hermione. His owl-delivered copy lay open in his hands.
Harry leaned forward immediately. "Oliver, don't—don't listen to this rubbish."
Hermione's cheeks were pink with outrage. "This is absolute slander! They can't just—publish something like this without proof!"
But Ron, sitting across from them, leaned back with a smirk that cut deeper than any jeer. "Oh, I dunno. Kinda makes sense, doesn't it? He's always been different. Bonded to some creepy black phoenix, teachers fawn all over him, now this—"
"Shut it, Ron," Harry snapped, more sharply than Oliver had ever heard from him.
Oliver himself didn't answer. His fingers were tight on the edges of the newspaper, knuckles white. He read the words again, each line slicing like a blade: heir… dark lord… secret bloodline. He forced himself to fold the paper slowly, deliberately, and set it aside on the table.
All around him, eyes burned holes into his back.
At the Slytherin table, laughter rang out. "Knew it!" one boy crowed. "Dark Lord in training, right under our noses!" Another jeered: "No wonder he doesn't belong anywhere!"
Even Draco Malfoy, usually quick to join such mockery, sat uncharacteristically silent, his expression unreadable.
At the staff table, tension coiled thick. Professors bent heads together, whispering in sharp tones. McGonagall's lips were pressed so thin they nearly disappeared. Flitwick glanced between Oliver and Dumbledore, brows knitted in concern.
Dumbledore himself sat perfectly still, the faint twinkle gone from his blue eyes. His hand was clenched beneath the tablecloth, nails biting into his palm. Outrage simmered beneath his calm exterior—not at Oliver, never at Oliver—but at the theft of truth. The boy should have heard it from him, gently, with guidance, not from a vulture with a quill.
Oliver looked up at last, his face pale but his chin set. His gaze swept the hall, then lifted toward the head table, locking briefly with Dumbledore's. The old wizard's eyes softened, apology heavy in their depths. Oliver's stomach twisted.
No one had told him. Not Dumbledore. Not anyone.
And now the whole world knew.
Oliver forced himself to breathe, though every inhale felt heavy, the weight of hundreds of stares pressing down. Nyx shifted uneasily, her talons scraping against the back of his chair. Then she let out a sharp, ringing screech that reverberated across the Great Hall, scattering conversations like dry leaves in wind.
Blue fire shimmered faintly at the tips of her wings, stars burning within her feathers. The room hushed in awe and fear.
"I'm not a Dark Lord," Oliver said finally, voice low but steady. The words weren't a plea—they were a fact.
"Exactly," George Weasley snapped, leaning forward with a glare so fierce it silenced the Slytherins' snickers. "You lot ought to shut it. He's more decent than half the school combined."
Fred jabbed a finger across the table at Ron. "And you—what kind of friend opens his gob to throw around rubbish when it's his mate on the line?"
Ron reddened, spluttering. "I'm just saying what everyone's thinking!"
Hermione's eyes narrowed. "No, Ron. You're saying what you're thinking. And it's cruel."
Harry slammed his palm flat against the table. "He's not the Dark Lord, and he's not dangerous. He's my friend."
But Ron only sneered harder, folding his arms. "Friend, right. Some friend—creeping around with secrets, hogging the spotlight, getting special treatment like he's better than everyone else. Face it—you're a good-for-nothing, Oliver. You'll never amount to anything. You're a mistake—"
The word landed like a strike to the chest.
Oliver's blood roared in his ears. His vision tunneled, Ron's face the only thing clear. That word—the one that had haunted him in whispers, that he had sworn he would never accept—ripped something loose inside him.
Before anyone could stop him, Oliver surged to his feet, fist clenching. He swung with all the fury boiling inside and landed a solid punch to Ron's chin.
The crack of impact echoed through the Hall. Ron yelped, toppling backward off the bench, clutching his face as blood trickled from his lip. Gasps erupted all around.
Nyx flared her wings wide, a corona of blue fire bursting into existence behind Oliver like a shield. The entire Hall froze, caught between shock and fear.
Oliver stood over the scene, chest heaving, rage still burning in his eyes. He didn't say another word. He didn't need to.