Albus Dumbledore sat alone in his office, the early morning light spilling through the tall windows. Normally, these quiet minutes before the day began in earnest were when he allowed himself peace—a sip of tea, a stroke of Fawkes's feathers, a smile at the quiet song of the phoenix. But there was no peace today.
The Daily Prophet still lay folded on his desk, its headline leering at him like a curse. "Oliver Night: Secret Heir of Dumbledore and Grindelwald? Potential Dark Lord in Training!"
His jaw tightened, and he set his cup down without drinking. His mind turned, as it had for hours, to the only explanation that made sense.
A goblin must have sold the information.
It was the one vulnerability he had overlooked, though he had known it all along. Goblins were not untrustworthy by nature—they were pragmatic, resistant to wizard authority but loyal to their contracts. Yet gold had its pull, even for them. All it would have taken was the right offer, the right pouch of coins, and the parchment from Oliver's inheritance test would have been copied and sold.
"I should have erased the memory," Dumbledore murmured aloud. His fingers pressed against his temple. "The parchment… the goblin… all of it. I thought restraint the nobler path."
Fawkes let out a soft, sorrowful trill, but Dumbledore did not look up. The weight of his failure pressed hard upon him. He had planned to tell Oliver himself, carefully, gently, when the boy was ready. He had planned to guide him through the revelation, to assure him he was not defined by blood but by choice.
But now—now the entire wizarding world had learned the truth in the most cruel and sensationalist way possible.
Before he could sink deeper into the storm of his own regret, a sound cut through his thoughts.
A sharp screech.
Not Fawkes—Nyx.
And then the unmistakable crack of flesh meeting flesh.
Dumbledore's head snapped up, eyes narrowing. The sound had come from the Great Hall.
By the time he swept down the stairs and entered the hall, chaos had erupted. Students were half-standing on benches, others shouting in disbelief. At the Gryffindor table, Ron Weasley was sprawled back against the floor, clutching his chin, a streak of red running down his lip. Across from him, Oliver Night stood rigid, chest heaving, Nyx flared wide behind him with feathers sparking blue firelight like scattered stars.
McGonagall's voice was already cutting through the din. "Enough! Sit down, all of you!"
Flitwick hopped from his chair, wand raised for order charms. Sprout hurried forward to pull students back from the flare of Nyx's wings. The younger children scrambled to obey, fear clear on their faces.
"Silence!" Dumbledore's voice thundered, his usual gentle tone sharpened into something that froze the air. The hall went still.
He strode toward the Gryffindor table, his robes flowing like a tide, blue eyes piercing. "Ten points from Gryffindor," he declared, gaze fixed on Ron. "And ten points from Slytherin," his eyes shifted to Oliver, "for brawling in the Great Hall."
Ron sputtered, still clutching his chin. Oliver said nothing, his expression locked tight, though his hands trembled faintly at his sides. Nyx hissed low, protective, until Oliver touched her wing and she settled reluctantly.
"You will both come to my office," Dumbledore continued, voice leaving no room for argument. "Immediately."
Harry stood abruptly. "Professor, please—we should go too. We saw what happened."
Hermione nodded, her face still flushed with anger. "We can explain. He was provoked."
Before Dumbledore could answer, Fred and George Weasley stepped forward as one, their expressions uncharacteristically hard. Fred spoke first. "If Oliver hadn't done it, Professor, we would've."
George folded his arms. "Ron went too far, and we're not going to let him wriggle out of it this time."
A ripple of surprise went through the hall—Weasleys turning against their own brother. Ron's face flamed redder, but he snapped his mouth shut when Dumbledore raised a hand.
"Very well," the Headmaster said quietly. "All of you—come."
The office was crowded when they arrived. Fawkes crooned softly from his perch, the sound strangely soothing compared to the tension filling the air. Dumbledore motioned for them all to sit, though Ron collapsed into his chair with a scowl while Oliver remained standing stiffly near Nyx.
"Tell me," Dumbledore said, voice calm once more, "what transpired."
Ron immediately burst out: "It wasn't my fault! He—"
Fred cut him off, sharp as a whip. "Don't, Ron. Don't you dare. You ran your mouth, and you know it."
George leaned forward, his tone just as fierce. "You called him names that no one deserves. If Oliver hadn't lost his temper, we might've done worse."
Ron gaped at them. "You're my brothers!"
"Exactly," Fred snapped. "And we know you. We know when you're being a prat."
Hermione nodded firmly. "They're right. What you said was cruel, Ron, and you know it. Oliver's been through enough without you piling on."
Harry's voice came quieter, but no less cutting. "You should be ashamed, Ron. You've no idea what it's like to be in his shoes, and yet you think it's fine to kick him while everyone else is already whispering."
Ron's mouth opened, closed, then opened again, but no words came. His gaze darted desperately between his brothers, his friends—no one came to his defense. Slowly, the fire in his eyes dimmed to something closer to wounded humiliation.
For the first time since he'd walked into the office, Ron fell silent.
Dumbledore leaned back in his chair, studying them all. He did not speak yet, but inside, a decision was already forming.
The office door swung open once more, and in swept Professors McGonagall and Snape, both of them sharp-eyed, their robes billowing like dueling banners.
"Headmaster," McGonagall said, lips pressed tight, "I thought it best to attend. A Gryffindor student is involved, and this is my responsibility."
Snape folded his arms, his expression a mask of disdain. "And as Slytherin's Head of House, I, too, must ensure proper discipline is applied. Especially when one of my own decides to strike another student in public." His dark eyes flicked toward Oliver, narrowing.
Oliver stood tall despite the weight of those eyes, Nyx's wing brushing lightly against his shoulder.
Dumbledore nodded. "Quite right. Please, both of you, sit. Let us hear this matter fully."
The room grew heavier with their presence, every breath of the gathered students caught in the crosswinds of house loyalty.
McGonagall was first to speak. "Ronald Weasley," she said sharply, turning on her student. "Do you realize the disgrace you've caused? Public insults in the Great Hall? Provoking violence?"
Ron's ears turned red. "But Professor—"
"No," she cut him off, voice like a whip. "You will not excuse this behavior. I have tolerated cheek from you before, but this—this is beyond the pale."
Snape leaned forward, seizing the moment. "And yet," he drawled, "it was Oliver Night who threw the punch, was it not? A Slytherin, striking first. Surely even provocation does not excuse that. Violence has consequences, Headmaster. He should be suspended."
Fred shot up in his chair. "Suspended? Are you serious? Ron all but begged for it!"
George matched him. "If you'd heard what he said, Professor, you'd have hexed him yourself."
Snape's lip curled. "I hardly take lessons in morality from pranksters."
"Enough," McGonagall snapped, her voice slicing the tension. "This is not about the twins."
Hermione raised her hand slightly, her voice steady when she spoke. "Professor Snape, with respect, Ron insulted Oliver horribly. Everyone here agrees. He crossed lines he never should have."
Snape sneered. "And that excuses breaking his jaw?"
Harry leaned forward, his voice low but firm. "He deserved to be put in his place."
Dumbledore raised a hand, silencing them all. "This is not a trial, though you are all speaking as if it were. The matter is simple: two boys, both in the wrong, both responsible. Ron, for words meant to wound. Oliver, for letting anger lead to violence."
McGonagall exhaled, stiff but resigned. "Then consequences for both. They must learn."
Snape's eyes glittered, but he said nothing further.
Dumbledore's tone softened. "Ten more points will be deducted from Gryffindor and Slytherin each. And both boys will serve detention. Their Heads of House will determine the form of it."
Ron's jaw dropped. "But—"
"Quiet, Mr. Weasley," McGonagall said firmly. "You will accept your punishment, and you will reflect on your behavior."
Oliver opened his mouth as if to argue, then closed it again. His fists unclenched slowly. Nyx pressed closer, her feathers cooling from blue sparks to a dim shimmer.
"Very well," Dumbledore said. His voice held the finality of a closing door. "You are all dismissed. Except you, Oliver. I would like a word, privately."
The others filed out reluctantly. Fred and George cast Oliver supportive nods. Harry clapped him once on the shoulder. Hermione lingered with a worried glance before following them out.
Ron left last, chin still bloodied, his brothers refusing even to look at him. Betrayal burned in his eyes, but he kept his mouth shut at last.
The office door closed.
Dumbledore turned his full gaze upon Oliver, the boy who was both his student and, though Oliver did not yet know, his nephew. His fingers folded together, his voice low.
"Oliver," he said, "we must talk."